


Left Unsaid

by LiveInMyHead



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Possessed Sam, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveInMyHead/pseuds/LiveInMyHead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Series. John, Dean and Sam are hunting a spirit that possesses children to make them kill their families and it has Sam. Will John and Dean realize it before it's too late for all of them? Sam 13, Dean 17.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer - I do not own anything from the Supernatural universe.

July 1996

Sam flipped through the microfiche displaying old newspaper articles with a bored and impatient twist of his fingers, eyes darting lazily over the words. He supposed technically he was doing what Dad ordered and looking for certain words or phrases, but he was really putting the half into half ass. He so didn't want to be cooped in the dark basement of the library of this shit hole town. It was going on hour three and he'd been ready to leave five minutes in. It was hot outside, but it was hotter inside the room. They didn't bother with air conditioning down here and there were no windows to break up the thickness of the air.

The Winchesters had rolled into this little town in Oklahoma only a couple of days ago for a hunt. Since it was summer and school was out, Sam had two more endless months on the road to look forward to. Hunt after hunt after hunt. Sam dreaded and loved summer all at once. He loved it because it meant more time to hang out with his Dad and Dean. They actually got to even do fun things sometimes in between the hours on the road, like see a movie or take a hike that didn't involve time trials or shooting or trying to survive with a corkscrew and a napkin. If they were really lucky their hotel would have a pool and he and Dean would spend hours in it until they were all wrinkled and sunburned. Yeah, sometimes summer was awesome.

Sometimes not so much.

He was thirteen now and participating in more hunts than not instead of just researching them. While he was glad he could finally be included and not left at home, his gut still clenched with anxiety and fear when they were heading out to take down the next bad thing Dad pointed them at. It usually meant blood and pain, more often Dean's than not. It seemed his brother always got hurt and it seemed to always be Sam's fault. He didn't move fast enough, he wasn't paying attention, he zigged when he should have zagged. Whatever, it almost always ended up in Dean adding another scar to his already terrifying collection. His older brother was so busy looking out for Sam, he forgot to protect himself.

He should have just been allowed to stick to researching, he was good at that.

Maybe that's why he was here now, sweating to death in front of a machine while Dad and Dean were out talking to people and getting the lay of the land. Well, this he could do and he would do it as best as he could so maybe Dean didn't end up with stitches or a concussion for a change. With a sigh, he sat up a bit straighter and narrowed his eyes in forced concentration so that the words blurring in front of him actually made sense. A few more articles swept by when he saw what he was looking for.

The article was dated May 15th, 1964 with the awesomely original title of "Town Reels at Tragedy". Sam sniffed in disdain, a bit disappointed that the writer of the article couldn't come up with anything better than that. He read on through the article. Twelve year old Alex Barton came home from school early one day and tortured and murdered his family; mother, father, and brother. He even killed the family dog. Sam didn't bother to hide the shudder that ran up his spine since no one was around. How could someone do that, a kid just a little younger than him? He couldn't even imagine hurting his family, no matter how angry or frustrated he might be with them sometimes.

After killing his family, Alex Barton went to his school and proceeded to burn it down. While school was still in. Amazingly enough, no one died at the school except Alex Barton. He was trapped in the basement and died in the fire. Strangely, they had found his charred body in the part of the basement that hadn't been touched by fire. The article didn't come right out and say it, but it looked like the speculation was that he crawled out of the burning area. Sam sat back in the chair, eyes wide with horror. How was that even possible? He'd seen his Dad and Dean keep moving with some pretty serious injuries, but being on fire? Yeah, he didn't think you were going to be doing much except screaming.

There was a family portrait embedded in the article and Sam moved his eyes slowly over the smiling faces. They looked normal. Even the kid. He'd learned enough about the horrors people could visit on each other throughout his life to know that appearances meant very little. A lot of monsters hid in pretty packages, even human ones.

Sam jotted down some notes on his notepad, reading through them again to make sure he had gathered the pertinent information. They already had quite a bit of information on the case, Sam was just sent to make sure they didn't miss something. It sounded like a demonic possession to Sam, but Dad was sure it was a ghost. He guessed that the facts were on Dad's side, seeing as how almost identical crimes had happened in the town after Alex Barton's death. Three families wiped out over a thirty year span, killed by one of the children. It was always a male child, but the ages ranged from eleven to seventeen. Maybe Sam just didn't want to believe that someone could do something like under their own influence, that it had to be possession or something else. It was just so scary to think that maybe the kid had just been born....wrong.

Checking his watch, Sam noted that Dean should be there to pick him up soon. The original article had been the last one he'd needed and he had a good list of notes to share with his Dad and Dean. He had a thought to go outside to wait so he could get some air, but there was a chance that Dad would be with him and he would probably accuse him of slacking off instead of digging through the information, even if his notes were complete. He wasn't exactly looking forward to seeing either his Dad or Dean at the moment for different reasons.

Sam was really having trouble with Dad, they just didn't see eye to eye anymore. They had always butted heads, two strong personalities going toe to toe constantly, but it was getting worse. They'd had a huge fight that morning when Dad told him that under no circumstances was Sam going to be involved in this hunt outside of research. That might not normally bother him, especially knowing the particular spirit they were after, but Sam actually wanted in on this one because it bothered him so much. He wanted to help get vengeance for all those families that had been destroyed, help them find peace. It was one of the first times he'd actually looked forward to a hunt, when he'd actually understood the mission that Dad and Dean had been trying to drill into him.

The conversation had started reasonably enough, Dad telling Sam that it wasn't safe and that it was too dangerous. He had no intention of dangling Sam as bait for the spirit. Sam had pointed out that Dean was in just as much danger of being possessed as Sam. Dad hadn't been swayed had only said that Dean would be able to handle it, implying that Sam couldn't. Dean had obviously seen the signs that this was going nowhere good and had immediately tried to interject himself in between them. Per usual, he was completely ignored by both of them.

It escalated quickly from there.

Sam scathingly reminded Dad that he had just been telling him that he needed to apply himself more in their hunts and then maybe Dean would stop getting hurt. Sam was pretty sure the word 'hypocrite' had passed his lips in reference to his Dad. If Dad hadn't been seeing red already, he sure was by then. Dad had used his usual weapons –cold, angry words and furious glares- telling Sam that it wasn't about what he wanted, it was about what was needed to successfully complete the hunt. He was needed to research and that was his duty on this mission. Nothing was sure enough to set Sam off than military terms, especially when applied to himself and Dad knew it.

Then Dad unleashed the big guns; Dean. It was like a recording; Dean doesn't talk back, Dean follows orders, Dean is the good son. Sam shot out that Dean wasn't the good son, he was the good soldier. That as far as Dad was concerned, he didn't even have sons, they were just soldiers in his private little war. Then he'd done what he always did and always regretted and swore he wouldn't do again, but knew he would; he followed Dad's lead and dragged Dean into it too.

Called him the mindless soldier, brainwashed to believe that Dad was always right and could do no wrong.

Called Dad a control freak that had broken Dean down into a machine that could only follow orders.

Sam always meant it as a slight against Dad, but it always managed to miss Dad completely and hit Dean with perfect accuracy. Every single time. He knew it hurt his brother, saw that clearly in the flash of emotion that would flood those green eyes before they dropped down to hide, but he never managed to stop saying it. Dad just made him so mad and he couldn't think of anything except getting his point through. With the heat of anger flooding through his mind, his words tangled, lost the clarity they had when he thought of them lying in his bed at night.

It was like a well rehearsed script that they couldn't change.

Watching Dean walk into the bedroom with the dejected slouching of his shoulders and down bent head had done it for Sam. The poisonous words stopped abruptly and Dad had asked him if he was happy with himself. Sam almost felt like hitting him then, but just sighed. No, he wasn't happy with himself or anything else. Sam wished he could learn the lesson so he could avoid the crushing disappointment; Dad wouldn't give an inch because he never thought he was wrong. No amount of screaming and yelling was going to work. The only thing he ever accomplished was hurting Dean, which was the last thing he wanted to do. Dad had an emotion proof shield and Sam didn't have the right ammunition to pierce it.

Finding Dean in the bedroom, he apologized profusely, trying to explain himself, but it wasn't necessary. Dean said it was fine with a cocky smile, but wouldn't meet his eyes. Sometimes, Dean would light into him for getting Dad so mad, but never for dragging him down, which made Sam feel even worse. Other times Dean would shrug it off, which Sam knew meant that he had shoved it down yet again. He wasn't sure which one he hated more.

The car ride over to drop him off at the library had been silent and tense, Dean just saying that he would come get him at 2pm. Dad didn't even look at him.

So yeah, not really looking forward to seeing either of them.

Sam checked his watch again and decided he'd be okay to head outside to wait now. He flipped the machine off and collected his notebook. He shoved back the chair and started heading towards the stairs when he felt a cold breeze at his back. After the half a second of thinking how good it felt, he grew alarmed, turning quickly, eyes darting around the room. There was no way that breeze had come from anything but a ghost. Fear crawled icy fingers into his stomach.

He had to get out now.

Sam ran for the stairs, fingers digging into his shorts pocket to grab the small container of salt he had with him. The breeze hit him again, this time in the face and he skidded to a halt, heart pounding in his throat.

_'So angry.'_

The sibilant whisper seemed to come from all around him and inside him all at once, but he couldn't see anything. It either didn't have form or it wasn't ready to show itself. Steeling himself, Sam started toward the stairs again.

A heavy push on his chest sent him reeling across the room, stumbling over his feet to fall on his back. Sam bit his tongue painfully at the impact, his notebook flying out of his hands.

_'So ignored.'_

Sam scrambled back up to his feet as the return of the voice, chest heaving with panicked breath, trying to figure out the best way to escape. He couldn't see anything to throw salt on and it definitely didn't want him near the stairs. He was trying to keep calm and keep his thoughts running towards escape instead of the news articles he'd just read. If this was the ghost of Alex Barton, he couldn't let it take him. He knew what it would try to make him do and that could not happen. There was a librarian upstairs and probably other people. If he could just…

_'So perfect.'_

The cold enveloped him, freezing his vocal cords, cutting off his cry before it began. Sam tried to bring his arm up to fling the salt, but he couldn't move it. With terror, he realized that he couldn't move anything but his eyes and they were useless because there was still nothing to see. He felt the cold start to seep into him, lighting his body up in burning pain as the chill touched his warm insides. Screaming in his head, he tried to fight it, tried to make something, anything move, but he was forced statue still as he was invaded.

Everything went black for a moment, the freezing pain receding. When he could see again, he tried once more to move, but it was different than before. It was like he was cut off from his body. There was no sensation at all. He couldn't even feel his hands, his arm, his feet, nothing. It was like he was paralyzed completely, locked inside his head. When the room stuttered out for a moment then came back, his head turning to focus on his discarded notebook on the floor, he realized with a sinking dread what that meant; his body had blinked and moved without him doing it. If Sam could have cried, he would have, but all he could do is try to stop the despair from overtaking him.

He wasn't alone in his body. It had him.

Oh God. Dad.

Dean.

_'You're mine now Sam. And we're going to have so much fun."_

###### 


	2. Chapter 2

Leaning on the Impala's fender with arms crossed and eyes covered with dark sunglasses, Dean watched his little brother leave the library, noting Sam's smile and energetic gait. His eyes fell on Dean and the gleaming black car behind him and he ran over, hair flopping chaotically into his eyes. All the resentment and hurt Dean hadn't been able to bury after this morning's argument melted away at his brother's happy face. When Sam was in a good mood, it was hard to stay upset with him or anything else in the world. He was glad that the time Sam had alone in the library must have been enough to let him work through his issues with Dad and this hunt.

"Hey Dean!" he cried, stopping short in front of him, gazing upward to try and meet the eyes covered behind dark plastic.

"Hey kiddo. How was the library? Did it meet your high standards?" Dean asked, reaching over to open the passenger side door.

Sam shrugged, then jumped inside the car. He waited until Dean came around and situated himself in the driver's seat before saying, "It was okay. It was really hot down there. I found the articles, though," he said proudly.

"Good, that should mellow Dad out a least." It hadn't been a fun day. Dad had been like a bear with a thorn in its ass the whole time, barely even managing to hold it together to talk to the more senior townspeople they had met with that might still remember the Barton murders. Dean ended up having to do most of the questioning, and while he carried himself older, he was still just a teenager to adults and they didn't talk to him the same way. He was pretty sure he didn't get the same information Dad would have, but it was better than getting no information if Dad interrogated them like they were a suspect in a murder, which was exactly what he had done to some poor elderly lady, only handing the reins to Dean when she started to cry.

Dad would never admit it, but the fights with Sammy were hitting him hard. He'd had it so easy with Dean, never had to work at getting him to do what he wanted and it was completely foreign to him that Sam wouldn't fall in line and do the same. He just kept up with the same tactics, command and dominate, not thinking that maybe Sam needed a different approach.

Well the day wasn't a complete loss, he did manage to get the number of the hot granddaughter of one of those old people, so that was a score. For an added bonus, it looked like Sammy was over the argument and maybe, just maybe, wouldn't start back in with Dad when they got back to the motel.

Yeah, and maybe, just maybe, he would wake up and be Hugh Hefner. It really was just as likely.

"Yeah, he was pretty mad this morning, wasn't he? I'm really sorry, Dean, I know it bothers you, but I just can't help it sometimes," Sam said quietly, picking at the corner of his notebook.

Dean reached over to ruffle his hair, chuckling when Sam darted away. "I know, Sammy. Just try to keep it to a minimum for the rest of the day, okay?"

"Sure, Dean. No fighting today," Sam promised with a toothy grin.

Dean had tried to have the same discussion with Dad, but it hadn't gone nearly as well as this one. Dad was just trying to keep Sammy safe, keep him out of the line of fire when he would be the main target, but Sam wouldn't know that unless he was told. Dean had begged Dad to just explain it to him and Dad had countered that he shouldn't have to. Dean followed orders, why wouldn't Sam?

That had pretty much been the end of the conversation.

Starting the car with a sigh at the memory, Dean put it into gear and headed towards the motel.

"Dean! Dean, please, can't you see that it's not me?" Sam screamed, staring at his brother through eyes that he had no control over in a voice that didn't make it past his own head.

_"But I am you, Sam. Did I do anything wrong, say something you wouldn't say? No, because I. Am. You. I have your thoughts, your memories and I'm a good mimic. They won't know it's not you in here until it's way too late, if they even know at all. Sometimes they don't. Sometimes they really do think it's their son doing all those horrible things. It really doesn't get better than that."_

"They'll know," Sam said stubbornly. "They'll know it's not me and they'll kill you."

It laughed, the whisper it had been using turning into the gleeful laughter of a young boy. Sam wished he could close his ears to that chilling sound, but he had no way to stop hearing it.

_"I'd like to see them try. In the meantime, I wonder how much trouble I can cause? I've only been in your head a few minutes and I can already see how much damage you could do to this little family you have. Big brother here?"_

The vantage point out his eyes moved back to Dean, running over his frame assessingly.

_"He lives for you, would do anything for you. It won't take much to break him down, not if it's you doing it. Your Dad? Well he might be a bit tougher to crack, but I think seeing his oldest boy covered in his own blood thanks to his youngest might just do it."_

Sam didn't understand how he could still want to cry when he didn't have the body to do it with. He knew without a doubt that Dad and Dean would never believe that Sam would hurt them and that they would figure this out before it came to that. Yet, there was still that bit of uncertainty, forced deeper inside by that confident and smug voice. It had been successful before. True, those families didn't know what Sam's did, but there was always the chance that it would get the jump on all of them.

_"More than a chance, Sammy."_

"Don't call me that!" Sam shouted out, then fell silent abruptly at the evidence that it could read his thoughts. He thought it could only hear what he "said".

_"I'm in you, through and through, Sam. You're not even really speaking, you know, you just think you are. The mind is a funny place."_

Sam didn't say anything, but couldn't keep the thoughts out of his head. There had to be a way he could warn them, something he could do. He refused to give into the panic. He had some time, he felt like this thing was going to play with them for a bit longer before it really got to the main event. He just had to figure out how he could still be heard from within the cage of his skin.

_"Calling me it and thing isn't very nice, Sam. It's Alex, but you already knew that, didn't you?"_

"I think I'll stick with it and thing, thanks. Suits you better," Sam retorted scathingly.

An amused chuckle filled his head. The view through his eyes finally shifted from Dean's profile to the window. They were almost at the hotel.

_"Mmm..it's almost show time. Let's see how my version of you works on your Dad."_

Sam would have smiled smugly had he the lips to do it with. "You'll never make it past my Dad."

_"Don't be so sure, Sammy boy. I'm planning to give your Dad exactly what he wants."_

"Yeah, what's that?" Sam asked defiantly.

There was no answer, just that laughter again

Once inside the room, Dean immediately tossed his sunglasses on the table and grabbed a couple of sodas from the mini fridge, shaking one and tossing it to Sam with a grin.

"Jerk," Sam mumbled as he awkwardly caught it between his notebook and free hand.

Dad was sitting at the table, going through the notes he and Dean had taken. He glanced up at the boys, then went back to his notes. Dean was hoping that he might at least manage a smile or even just something a bit more friendly than the black glower he was wearing now. He shouldn't be surprised really, it's not like he'd been in a great mood when Dean dropped him off earlier. Dean knew Dad had good reasons for making Sammy stay behind on this one, but he didn't understand why he wasn't just honest with Sam and shared them? Sometimes he just didn't get his Dad and thought he never would.

"What did you find at the library, Sam?" Dad asked gruffly, eyeing Sam over his beer that he was preparing to take a long swallow from. Dean looked on enviously. He would much rather have the beer over the soda, but while Dad would let him drink after a hunt, he rarely let him indulge other times. Of course, as often as Dean was made to guzzle whiskey as the Winchester's version of anesthesia due to injuries, he was well on his way to becoming a seasoned drinker.

Sam flopped into the chair across from Dad, opening his notebook up on the table. "Not much more than we already had really. Except, the kid actually crawled out of the fire, while on fire! How badass is that?" he asked excitedly.

Dad's expression didn't change in the slightest. "Watch the language, Sam. Any thoughts on how he managed to do that?" he asked.

"Beats me, article didn't say. He was trying to burn down the school and everyone in it, though. I would say that's strange, but since he'd just chopped up his family, maybe not so much," Sam shrugged.

Dean looked over at Sam sharply, eyes narrowed. Sam usually wasn't quite so casual about the grisly details; that was Dean's job. Sam's was too feel all emotional and sad. Maybe he was just trying to keep it light, make sure he didn't rub Dad the wrong way again. Stranger things had happened, right?

Rubbing his stubbled jaw, Dad's eyes drifted up to the ceiling as he pondered Sam's words. "That is odd. None of the other kids tried to do anything like that, just killed the families." Those dark hazel eyes dropped to focus in on Dean. "What did the fire chief say, Dean?"

Knowing immediately what he was referring to, Dean grabbed his own notebook and flipped a couple of pages. They had talked to the retired fire chief who had been at the scene back in 1964. "They found melted wax. Looked like the kid had candles down there where they think he got trapped. That didn't start the fire, the gasoline, propane and kerosene mixture did that. " Dean shut the notebook. "You think he was doing some kind of ritual?" he asked.

Dad nodded slowly. "Maybe. Some kind of dark magic that required blood and sacrifice. Could explain why this ghost is so strong. It takes a lot of juice to completely take over someone for an extended period of time."

Dean shuddered, finally sitting in the other chair. "That's just creepy man, thinking of a ghost walking and talking with your body like you're some kind of puppet," he said, lips curled in disgust.

"Yeah, creepy," Sam intoned.

Finishing his beer, Dad stood and headed to the fridge to grab another. "Dean, we'll head to the school tonight. There must be some remains there, that's where it has to be possessing the kids. We'll focus on the basement. That school teacher, Mrs. Kolster, said they built the new school over the foundation of the destroyed one, so that's still original."

"Mrs. Kolster?" Sam piped in. "She was one of Alex's teachers. What did she say?" he asked.

"Said he was a quiet kid that kind of stuck to himself. Spent a lot of time at the park and the library, really smart, but he had something that was a bit off about him. The usual psycho killer description," Dean rattled off flippantly.

Something crossed over Sam's face, almost anger, before it fell back into casually interested lines. "People always say they knew something was "off" after something happens," he dismissed.

Dean's eyes narrowed on his little brother's face, who merely stuck his tongue out at him. "How did you know about Mrs. Kolster?" he asked.

"Read it in the article," Sam replied. "She had a quote in there or something."

Dad looked over at Sam, his face stern and uncompromising. "I'm expecting you to stay here with the door locked and salt lines intact. This ghost likes to go after kids that are angry and resentful and I don't want you anywhere near it. It's to keep you safe, Sam, it's not a punishment."

To say Dean was shocked was an understatement. Dad had actually listened to him? He was pretty sure that was a sign of Armageddon. Dad's eyes flicked over to his, catching the expression that must have clearly illustrated his surprise. He winked. He actually winked. If Dean hadn't already been sitting, he would have dropped to the floor.

"I get it, Dad," Sam replied, suddenly subdued and serious. "When I was reading about what happened, I realized why you wouldn't want me along on this one. It's okay. It would just be nice if you would explain it to me instead of just barking out orders," he said carefully.

One side of Dad's mouth crooked up in a smile. "I'll see what I can do, okay?"

It was the most civilized conversation they'd had since…well a long time. Dean felt the smile curving his lips and quickly hid it by taking a drink of his soda. If they could both just give a little, it could be like this all the time and Dean wouldn't have to worry about their family imploding. He wasn't going to get his hopes up too much, but every battle won was worth celebrating, no matter how small.

"Dean, we head out at 1900. Let's get some dinner," Dad said, already heading to the door.

The boys followed him out.

"Wow, you really screwed up big time," Sam said gleefully as soon as he felt himself come back closer to the surface of his mind. It had shoved him deeper inside, silencing what Sam had come to consider his voice. It had clearly ignored the commentary he was trying to scream out with his thoughts since they'd entered the motel room. He had been terrified that it would leave him there, completely locked away, only able to see and hear, but to his relief, it let him return enough that he could speak again.

Through his stolen eyes, he could see that they were now in the car on the way to a restaurant, Sam alone in the backseat. He could see the back of Dean's and Dad's heads, hear them talking about the plan for the night.

_"Think so?"_

"Oh yeah. See, I would have never let Dad get away with telling me to stay home without even a single complaint. And Mrs. Kolster? Dean saw my face, you were pissed about what she said. I wouldn't be mad, so what was the look for? Now he's going to wonder," Sam explained.

_"I think you're missing the bigger picture here, Sam, like usual. Dean saw you, but did you see him? Of course not, you never do. You didn't see how happy he was that you didn't fight again, that your Dad finally let you in on the decision instead of just expecting you to abide by it. And your Dad? He saw that you were growing up, understanding why he does things the way he does. Those two have probably never been prouder of you. And it's not even you! Hilarious."_

"Shut up! You don't know anything, you're twisting everything around," Sam yelled. He wished he could clench his fists, he was so angry that this thing dared to manipulate his family through him.

_"I know what you know, Sam, and tonight, they are both going to know how much you hate and resent them."_

Swallowing his anger, Sam tried to force himself to calm down. He wasn't going to win by losing control. This thing was wrong and it wasn't going to be able to use him against his brother and father. They knew how much he cared about them. Didn't they?

"I don't hate my family, I love them more than anything in the world. They'll never believe differently," Sam bit out, trying to ignore the vision of pained green eyes unable to meet his.

_"After I'm done with them, they will."_

###### 


	3. Chapter 3

The streets were quiet as they headed to the school, Dean driving, Dad in the passenger seat. Sam was left at the motel, flipping through the few channels on the TV. Dean was hoping that this was going to be a straight forward salt and burn, but, discussing it over dinner, Dad had revealed that he didn't think it was going to be that easy. Alex Barton's body had been cremated along with his family's per the next of kin's wishes, unusual for the 1960s, but not unheard of, so they didn't have actual remains to deal with. So they were either looking for some residual body matter, such as dried blood, or more likely, his spirit was attached to something there.

Talk about a needle in a haystack.

Sam had made a joke about having to burn down the school all over again to find any remains of a charred body. Dad hadn't been amused, but Dean suspected it was because he had been thinking the same thing and just didn't want to admit it. It was an odd thing for Sam to say, even in jest. In fact, there had been a few odd things going on with Sam. There were a few times when Dean would look over at his little brother to see him observing Dad, or even himself, with calculating eyes, like he was sizing them up. Sam would notice him looking and just smile or throw a french fry at him, or something equally normal.

He would also zone out for a few minutes at a time, dropping out of the conversation to stare into space or down at his food, before jumping back into the discussion as if he had never left it. That was definitely not outside the realm of possibility if Sam were upset and sulking, except then he would just stay silent all together, but he wasn't. He was actually cheerful and animated for the times he was talking to them.

There was a small voice in the back of his mind wondering if maybe something had happened to Sam, if he had been exposed to the ghost and it wasn't Sam at all. Then he would wonder where it would have happened, knowing that Sam had been nowhere near the school. So he chalked it up to Sam attempting to do as Dean asked and work with Dad instead of constantly against him. If that's what he was doing, it couldn't be easy. Dad was still Dad, even if he was trying to do better, and he had said several things that would have normally set Sam off, so maybe that explained the silence. Sam was just biting his tongue, or trying to process through his reactions. Maybe he was watching them so closely to try and read behind the words, see the meaning.

It was something his too smart, geeky brother would do with his logical brain, even if it was a bit unsettling. If this behavior was a byproduct of Sam trying to get along with Dad, then Dean wasn't sure he preferred it. It was just a bit too weird.

"Park a couple of blocks away," Dad said suddenly, busting Dean out of his thoughts. He would ponder Sam's shift in attitude later, it was time to focus on the job.

Once the car was parked and all the necessary tools of their trade were assembled and stored about their persons, the two older Winchesters quickly made their way to the school, watching carefully for any witnesses as they darted around the back. Two men walking around with shotguns would definitely warrant a 911 call if they were spotted. Dean noted that there were no cars in the parking lot, so no worries about a cleaning staff or security hanging around inside. Breaking into the school was easy, a few twists of Dad's wrists and dexterous fingers and they were inside the double doors. Entering the dark hallway, Dean turned on his flashlight, illuminating the long row of lockers, closed doors spaced evenly in between signifying classrooms. Dad followed suit, his own flashlight adding additional illumination to the silent gloom.

Dean had pulled a floor plan of the school from the county records, so knew exactly where to go to get to the original basement. The school was surprisingly large for the size of the town and the basement covered even more ground, extending beyond the building itself. It wouldn't be hard to get lost down there, the original school had once been a church and the basement had been extensive. Only half of the original basement still remained, but it was filled with rooms and hallways just begging to be in a horror film. By comparison, the new basement was basically a big open room, with a few small side rooms for storage. Dean really wished it was the new basement they had to crawl around in tonight.

The absolute silence and darkness of the school itself was eerie enough, the thought of running around in the basement with a ghost on the loose was working on Dean's nerves. Normally, he was fearless on the job, filled to the gills with adrenaline and piss and vinegar at the thought of dispatching another bad thing, but this one was a bit special. He wouldn't admit it under threat of death, but he was just ever so slightly claustrophobic. He was a wide open space kind of guy. Besides, the closer the walls, the easier for the bad things to throw you into them and the less space there was to evade.

He must have hesitated a bit too long.

"Dean? You want to stop admiring the scenery and get moving?" Dad prompted.

"Sorry," he muttered.

He gestured for Dad to follow him and they headed up the hall, ears and eyes open for any signs of the ghost or for someone else in the school. It would just be their luck that they would run into a rent a cop. Taking a right at the juncture of two hallways, Dean stopped at a closed door on their left, a small plaque beside it reading "Basement – Staff Only". Dad once again worked his magic on the lock and they started down the stairs, Dean closing the door softly behind them. He tried to ignore the drop in his stomach as he looked down into what was pretty much a pit of blackness behind the feeble rays of their flashlights.

"Where are we headed, Dean?" Dad asked, carefully illuminating the steps, his rumbling voice incredibly loud in the stillness.

"Once we get to the bottom, we'll hang a right. We should hit a door that will lead us into Freddy Krueger's part of the basement," Dean explained, smirking at his own joke. Either Dad didn't get the reference or just didn't care to comment on it. Dean sighed. So much for trying to lighten up his own inner tension with some humor.

They hit the bottom of the stairs, the room so large that they couldn't see the end of it. There were shelves directly beside the stairs, filled with what appeared to be tools. Steadily pushing through the darkness to the right of the stairs, they finally saw the door.

"Okay, just like we talked about. I'll take the left side, you take the right. Check all the rooms, we have no idea where he was down here," Dad reminded him of the plan they had made at dinner.

None of the people they had spoken to had seen the basement since the fire and couldn't really tell them where Alex Barton's body had been found or where the candles had been. All they knew was that the location hadn't been so damaged that it had been demolished, so was part of the original basement that still remained. In order to cover all the ground in one night and perform the careful scrutiny required to look for remains, they had to split up.

"Yep, I got it," Dean confirmed. He pulled his walkie talkie out of his pocket, switching it on, a hissing crackle loud enough to make him flinch filling the basement before it went silent. "I sure hope these things work down here."

Dad followed his lead and turned his on as well. They had already tested them in the car, but the thick walls of good solid brick masonry might block the signals. "Should be okay, we used them in that cave in New Mexico without any issues," Dad reassured him.

Dad looked over at him, flashlight pointed towards his face so Dean could see him. "Any trouble, you just holler. If the walkie isn't working, use the shotgun, should echo enough that I can hear you. I'm going to be honest with you, Dean, this is probably a wild goose chase, but it's the best lead we've got. Check every nook and cranny, ceiling to floor."

"Yes, sir." He knew the drill, but didn't mind when Dad went through it. It was all part of making sure the plan was fully understood for a perfect execution. It was like a coach giving a pep talk to his team. If Sam were here, he would be rolling his eyes, or making some smart ass comment, but Dean never did.

"And, son? Be careful. This is a nasty ghost. It's powerful and it's pissed and it's going to get even more mad when it knows we're here to kill it. Stay focused," Dad ordered, squeezing Dean's shoulder briefly.

"You too, Dad," Dean said with a nod.

With that, the Winchesters went through the door and headed their separate ways.

The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees as Dean headed down the hall. He could look over and vaguely see the light from Dad's flashlight heading the other way, but it was getting dimmer by the second. He tried to avoid thinking about how narrow the walls were, how close the ceiling was to his head. Just breathe, he reminded himself. The hallway was not getting smaller, it was all in his head.

Please let it all be in his head.

Ordering himself to pull it together, Dean formed a plan in his mind. He would go all the way to the end and then start working his way back up, checking the rooms along the way. That should ensure that he didn't get lost and that he didn't miss anything. In the inky blackness, it would be easy to do. He could clearly recall the floor plan. There was a long, curving hallway that ran in a circular shape along the sides of the square structure, with several big rooms in the center and smaller rooms on the exterior. A cross shaped hallway connected the two circular paths. Simple enough, but in the dark, everything looked the same, so he wanted to avoid getting turned around.

The walls were mostly brick, some sections reinforced with concrete. There were some spots that were blackened, the fire having touched them, but not enough to ruin it. As he passed a room, he shined his light within, seeing stacks of chairs. The rest of the rooms he passed were closed with battered wooden doors that appeared original.

After around ten minutes of walking, Dean hit a dead end. It looked like a wall had collapsed and instead of clearing it out and fixing it so that the circular path remained continuous, it had been covered with concrete and reinforced by a thick wooden beam. Cheap and ugly, but effective.

He turned back around and paused by the first room. The door wasn't latched, so he shoved it open with the barrel of the shotgun, shining the light inside. Aside from a wheelbarrow with a half empty bag of concrete mix in it, there was nothing in the room. He moved slowly through the area, studying every inch of it carefully, looking for anything that might be either the remains of a 12 year old boy, or something he might have left behind. Unless the kid had a thing for masonry, there wasn't anything there.

Dean backed out and moved to the next room. This door was locked, so he shoved the shotgun under his arm and flashlight into his mouth so he had his hands free to pick the lock. It was rusty, as if it hadn't been opened in a while. Not too surprising, they clearly weren't using much of this part of the basement. It finally gave way and he quickly put his lock picks away, and pushed the door open, collecting his flashlight and shotgun from their temporary positions.

This room was completely empty. He was about to start his inspection, when he heard a noise in the hallway. Immediately on alert he cocked the shotgun, holding the flashlight steady in between the barrel and the hand wrapped around it and pulled it into a cautionary position at his waist. He stopped moving then, listening carefully. For a tense moment, there was only silence. Then he heard it again, a knocking sound in the next room. Maybe Alex Barton had come to play. He moved stealthily into the corridor, shining the light both ways. He didn't see anything in the hallway.

Cautiously, he stepped in front of the door of the suspect room. There was a flickering light bleeding out from the gap between the door and the floor. Dean's brows drew together tightly in confusion. He knew that hadn't been there when he came through here before. Drawing back, he steadied himself, then kicked out at the door by the knob. It burst opened with a bang and Dean immediately stepped inside, shotgun now pulled up to his shoulder.

There was no one in the room, only a solitary chair right in the center with a bundle of rope on the seat. A small table was beside it with a single candle.

It was completely and thoroughly unnerving.

"What the hell?" Dean whispered. He knew ghosts could do some pretty nutty things, but he didn't think this was possible. Someone was here.

He started to turn, preparing to head back into the hallway when something hard and heavy crashed against the back of his skull. The impact dropped him face down on the floor, white lights of excruciating pain lighting up behind his suddenly closed eyelids. The shotgun flew out of his numbed grasp, along with the breath in his lungs. Fighting the agony pounding through his head, Dean struggled to hold onto consciousness, knowing he was in trouble. Breathing as deeply as he could on the dusty floor, trying to clear the thickening fog in his brain, he forced his eyes open. His vision was blurred, the shadows on the floor doubling and tripling before him. Ignoring the nausea that welled up at the movement, he turned his head slightly, looking for his attacker.

A pair of worn out sneakers and dingy socks. Skinny legs, a baseball bat hanging beside the calf. Torn and frayed cargo shorts. Now crouching down, head turning to the side to mimic the tilt of Dean's, floppy chocolate brown hair hanging down.

"Sammy?"

He was relieved. Sam was here, he would help him. Wait, Sam wasn't supposed to be here, he was supposed to be at the motel. He's not safe here, have to get him out. Why did he have a bat?

Dean's jumbled thoughts tossed around inside his turbulent mind, darkness starting to encroach on his vision, narrowing down his field of sight. He was trying to get his body to move, but his body clearly had other ideas and moving was not one of them. He was fighting, and fighting hard, concentrating on breathing, on willing his fingers to stretch out and grab that shotgun he could see just a few feet away.

Wait. Sam had the bat. Dean had been hit in the head. Could he...no. No, please. Please not Sam. Dean's eyes made their way reluctantly back up to what he hoped was his little brother's. Where there should been concern and fear, there was only a cold anticipation in those blue green depths.

"Hi, Dean," Sam said, a slow malevolent smile curving up his lips.

As unconsciousness finally won the fight by knockout, Dean was left with one thought; that was not his brother.

"Please! Please don't do this! I'm begging you, I'll do anything you want!" Sam pleaded, seeing his brother finally drift away, eyes shutting even as blood from his head trickled down the side of his neck.

_"You'll already do anything I want, Sam, and I'm going to show you what I want as soon as Dean wakes up. I told you we were going to have fun."_

Trying to keep calm was no longer an option. Sam felt like a fly fluttering around in a closed jar, fighting so hard to get out, but it wasn't possible. This thing was going to kill his brother, it was going to make his brother die while looking into Sam's eyes. This wasn't supposed to happen, they were supposed to notice that it wasn't him, they were supposed to get it out of him!

_"Avoiding responsibility again, Sam? Ever think that maybe you could have gotten out of this yourself instead of expecting them to fix it? It doesn't matter now. Dean's as good as dead. Not for a while, though. I think we're going to talk a bit first."_

Dean's own bowie knife came into Sam's line of sight then, the candlelight reflecting off the shiny surface.

_"We're going to talk a lot."_

###### 


	4. Chapter 4

Dean ebbed back to the edges of consciousness slowly, the pounding agony in his head the first thing to greet him. That was all it took for the memory to come back. Sam. Sammy had done this to him. Well, not Sammy really, the evil bastard wearing Sam's body like a Halloween costume. A maelstrom of panic, fear, and guilt started to flood his head, adding to the churning in his stomach, the pain throbbing in his brain. He had let it get Sammy. He had known something was off, knew that Sam cooperating with Dad was so far from right that it wasn't even funny, but he had so badly wanted to believe…

Wall it up, he ordered himself, stopping the downward spiral of his thoughts, the command sounding suspiciously like Dad. Wall it up and deal with it later, he had to deal with the situation he was in first. Luckily, he'd had the presence of mind to still appear unconscious, or so he hoped, so he had time to take stock. He was in the chair, tied tightly to it. He was shirtless, he could feel the scratch of the rope fibers against the skin of his torso and wrists. A tiny movement told him that his ankles were tied as well. The only thing he could hear was breathing beside him. Aside from the head injury, he didn't think anything else was injured, there were no other pain spots. He didn't feel his gun against his spine or the knife sheath at his waist.

So now for the results of his assessment.

Tied to a chair. Bad.

Since he was in the chair, that meant that the ghost possessing Sam was also making him stronger. Really bad.

Weapons now in the hands of a possessed Sam. Very bad.

Sam standing beside him being run by a ghost that likes to literally rip apart families. Pretty fucking bad.

"Okay, the possum thing's getting old."

The voice was Sam's, but there was an edge to it, something that didn't quite fit in the young still high pitched tone. Well, time to get this show on the road. Dean didn't know how long he'd been unconscious and he had been hoping to stall long enough for Dad to make it to them, but should have known he wouldn't be that lucky.

He peeled one eye open carefully and when that one managed to not burst out of his skull with the waves of agonizing pressure hammering through his brain pan, he opened the other one. The door was now shut and presumably locked. His shotgun was against the wall next to the door. The little table with the candle was at this left, Sam standing at his right. At least he thought he was, he hadn't yet worked up the courage to look at his baby brother and see a stranger looking out of his eyes. He ran his eyes quickly over the parts of his body he could see. There was blood streaking down his chest, soaking into the rope wrapped around him, but judging from the wet tickle on his neck, that was from the head wound.

Sam moved in front of him abruptly. Dean recoiled, biting down a groan that jumped into his throat when the movement jarred his aching head. He didn't want to look at Sam, didn't want to see what he had let happen to him, but it was too late for that. The cold metal of his own knife, the edge he knew for a fact was razor sharp, touched his arm, tapping lightly. It was a warning. Reluctantly, Dean raised his eyes up to Sam's, then had to fight down a wince when he saw the unpleasant anticipation in his gaze.

A gleeful smile broke over Sammy's face, so Sammy and so wrong when coupled with those evil eyes. "Finally! I thought I was going to have to persuade you to join the party," he said with relief.

"Oh, I'm always down for a party," Dean responded, voice rough and deep from his little nap. His big plan was to keep him talking, wait for Dad to come. He would find them.

"Glad to hear it. How's the head? Don't want you passing out on me again too soon, we have an agenda," he asked solicitously, head cocked in such a familiar manner that it made Dean's heart skip.

"Get out of my brother," Dean growled out, glaring at the thing using his brother.

"No, not yet. We have things to talk about. You know, it's fascinating inside little brother's head. " Sam tapped the side of his head with the knife. "I mean, the stuff you guys do is crazy! Hunting monsters? Ghosts? It's all so interesting. At least, it is to me. Sammy boy hates it. Just wishes he could be part of a family that is normal and boring. Really, any other family will do, just as long as it doesn't have you and Dad in it. Personally, I don't think he knows how good he has it," he revealed.

Dean just smiled at him. "You think you're going to break me down by telling me this stuff? Newsflash asshole, I know you're not my brother. You're possessing him, which makes just about everything you say a lie," he said lazily.

Sam started to pace in a bit in front of him, playing with the tip of the knife distractedly. "It's funny you would assume that I'll lie. Why would I?" He shrugged, turning back to Dean. "I have full access to Sam, every little hidden thought he's ever had is available to me and there are plenty in here that he would never want you to know. He's awake in here, you know. He's seeing and hearing everything. He's not happy. In fact, he was screaming so loud that I had to shut him up for a bit."

"You let him go, you son of a bitch!" Dean shouted, pulling at the ropes, not even noticing when the coarse fibers started to shred his skin. The thought that Sam would see all of this…no, he couldn't let this happen.

Sam shot forward, the blade buried in the space between Dean's left shoulder and neck before he even knew what was happening. For a moment, all Dean was aware of were those perversely satisfied eyes so close to his, the shape, the color all Sam, but he had never seen that look in his brother's eyes. How did he miss it before? Then the pain hit, a low cry of agony breaking free of his mouth before he could stop it. Sam backhanded him, far stronger than he should have been, blood flying out of Dean's mouth as his head snapped to the side.

"You shut your mouth," Sam said harshly, one hand coming up to close around Dean's neck, not completely shutting off his air supply, but definitely making him work for each breath. He leaned in closer so that Dean could feel his breath on his face. "That's our mother you're talking about."

Dean shook his head, trying to back away from the cruel face so close to his. The hot pain flooding through his shoulder was almost blocking out the screaming in his head. All he could think about was that his little brother was watching this like some awful movie that was on every channel of a TV that wouldn't turn off.

"Sammy, it's okay. I know it's not you. It's okay," Dean breathed out, starting to feel like he was going to pass out again. Sweat was dripping down his face, even though the room was freezing, the skin below his neck covered in goosebumps. As much as he wanted take a time out, he knew he couldn't. He had to keep it talking, keep it occupied so Dad could save them.

Sam sat on his lap then, arms around him in a sick parody of a concerned hug, head resting against his uninjured shoulder. Dean pulled in a gasp of air as the pressure on his neck released. His skin was crawling with disgust having this thing soil a gesture of brotherly love. He wanted nothing more than to buck it off, but he was tied too tightly, his strength waning from concussion and blood loss.

"Oh it's Sam. Maybe he wouldn't play with you quite so rough, but he does wish he could tell you how truly pathetic he thinks you are. He's said it before, hasn't he? Daddy's little weapon, only good for dying in combat. Of course, he always apologizes afterward, but it's just to keep the peace. After all, between Dad and you, you are slightly more tolerable," Sam said lightly, fingers playing with the bloodied and sweat dampened hair at the back of Dean's neck.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Dean told himself to ignore it, that it may be plucking out Sam's thoughts, but it was twisting them around to suit its purpose. Sam only said those things to try and open Dad's eyes, it wasn't done to hurt him. Then why does he keep saying it when he knows it hurts you? a little voice asked. Dean shook it away. He couldn't let this thing into his head, he had to hold onto the belief and faith he had in their relationship.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" Sam roared, a hand closing around the knife handle still in his body, slowly digging it in further.

Dean's eyes flew open at the fresh wave of pain, a quick shout of pain trailing into a low growl. Clenching his teeth, breath coming in sharp pants, he forced himself to look back at the thing inside his brother. Sam's face was twisted into angry and forbidding lines.

"He hates you!" he yelled out, starting to turn the knife in Dean's shoulder. "You smother him. 'Do this, Sammy, don't do that, Sammy, do as I say, do what Dad says'. You're not even a real person, you're only what people need you to be. Is there even a Dean? Does he exist? If Dean's alone in the…well anywhere…is he even there at all?" he asked, his tone changing abruptly back to playfulness.

Gasping now, Dean was still trying so hard to stay awake, his fists clenched with the effort. The agony in his shoulder as Sam continued to tear a gaping wound into him was offering a way out, away from the pain, but he couldn't take it. Blood was running in sheets down his chest, the rope soaked cleanly through so that it had started to saturate the waist band of his pants.

Dad had to be there, where was he? If he didn't get there soon, he wasn't going to make it. He could feel its anger, pulsing and pushing at him, so eager to do him more harm. He knew in his heart that Sam loved him, but his head had its doubts. Hadn't he wondered himself if he was anything away from his family? He just didn't think Sam had realized it. If he didn't know that, what else didn't he know about his little brother? Did Sam really hate him in some way?

"You're looking a little pale there, big brother," Sam commented, a hand lightly touching Dean's cheek, thumb collecting the mingled sweat and blood from beneath his lip.

Dean started to jerk his head away, but a warning turn of the knife kept him still. "Our Dad's going to kill you," he huffed out, staring firmly at the door as if he could wish his Dad into existence. Dean could take the pain, he could take it all day and had before, but it was the thought of what this was doing to Sam that was killing him. He had no doubt Dad would save them, which meant that Sammy would have to live with the memories of carving up his brother.

"Not likely." Sam hopped off his lap then, finally releasing the handle of the knife. "See, this basement is my domain, I can do what I want with it. Trust me, he won't show up until I want him to," he said with an unconcerned smile.

He eyed Dean thoughtfully for a moment, then in a decisive movement, yanked the knife out of Dean's flesh. The scream that flooded his mouth would not be stopped this time and it reverberated off the walls before dying down into whimpers that escaped with each breath. Dean hated the noise, but he couldn't seem to stop it. His chin came down to rest on his chest, eyes trying to focus on something steady, but everything was moving, even his own tied down body. He was starting to lose it, he could feel his already tenuous grasp on consciousness weakening.

Cold hands creeped up around his shoulders from behind, the hand by his injured shoulder digging into the torn flesh. Dean's breath caught on a sob of distress, not even knowing how he could actually feel more pain in that area, it already hurt so badly. He could feel the knife still held in Sam's right hand pressed flat against his shoulder blade.

"He's going to leave you, you know," Sam whispered into his ear. "He's already planning it out. He can't wait to get away from you, finally get to make his own decisions and live his own life. Stop being such a freak. In fact, he's kind of liking this. Gets to take out his rage on the two people he hates most in life and still be able to say that it wasn't really him. Nice and convenient, really. Maybe he'll get to start that new life even sooner."

Sam's left arm turned to curl around the front of Dean's throat, shoving his head back up, Dean's chin resting on the inner crook of Sam's elbow, face tilted slightly to the right. Sam draped himself over Dean's good shoulder so that they were almost face to face. "That's better," Sam said. "I really wanted to see your face when I do this."

At those words, Sam brought the knife back up and slammed it right underneath Dean's rib cage, sinking deep into the flesh. Before Dean could even react to the new wound, the knife was withdrawn and plunged into the meat of his right thigh, hard enough that the hilt would leave a bruise on his skin. There wasn't even time to scream or react in any way. The pain exploded through him in a ball of fire and ice, obliterating sense and awareness and sent him hurtling into darkness.

Sam could only watch in numbed horror as his brother's body slumped as much as it could in its tied position. He had been rendered unable to speak as soon as Dean woke up, shoved away again, only able to observe as his body, voice and thoughts were used to torture his brother. It had tried to carry on a conversation with Dad and Dean at dinner and with Sam on the inside, but it had been too much. Dean had noticed, staring openly at him in bewilderment, when Sam would just fade out for a few minutes. Dad had noticed too, but was more subtle about his scrutiny.

_"He's tough, your brother. I thought the memories you had were embellished out of hero worship, but they are the real deal. Not so strong mentally though."_

"He's stronger than anyone I know." Sam said tonelessly. Inside he was a mass of screaming rage, despair, and hopelessness, and he knew the ghost was aware of it, but he had no more energy to put into a voice that only he could hear. He had done everything he could think of, but there was no lock to pick, no door to kick down. He was just trapped in infinite blackness. He couldn't escape, couldn't help Dean. There was nothing he could do.

It was going to kill Dean. When that happened, Sam was gone too. Living without his brother was not an option, especially knowing that Sam torturing him, murdering him, was the last thing he saw. Where the hell was Dad? It was the only card they had left.

_"He's already breaking. Pain and fear will do that to you. Besides, you know he's just a boiling seething mass of self-doubt and guilt all hidden behind a pretty picture. After all, I wouldn't know it unless you did. This won't take long at all and then he'll die knowing how you really feel about him. Deny all you want, Sam, but you are miserable and he's a big part of it."_

If Sam could have smiled, it would have been sad. "You really are messed up, aren't you? You see everything in my head, but you don't understand any of it. Yeah, I'm miserable and yeah Dean is part of it, but he's not the cause. I'm miserable for him. He's just as trapped as I am, he's just either learned to accept it or to act like he does. Either way, he's made his peace with it. Maybe someday I would have too if you hadn't come into our lives," he said quietly.

_"You can lie to yourself, Sam, but you can't lie to me. I see it, I see how much you want to get away, turn your back on both of them so you can forget this part of your life."_

"I will never turn my back on my family, on Dean, no matter where I go," Sam shot out, some heat starting to creep back into his dead voice.

It laughed. _"We'll never know now, will we? Your little family is going to be all over in just a few hours."_

"Hey Jude. Don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better."

The sweet, if off pitch, singing of his little brother trickled into his mind, breaking through the cracks of the velvet darkness that was holding him so gently. Mom used to sing that song to him when he was sick or hurt or just sad and he did it for Sammy when he was little. Comfort and love should have followed that voice, but it was all wrong somehow. There was only pain and despair and a chill buried deep into his bones.

Then he remembered.

It almost broke him down then, hearing that monster corrupt something that linked Sammy and Dean with Mom, a cherished memory that had the power to bring him peace.

It never would again.

"Eyes forward, Dean. We're not done yet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Jude lyrics belong to songwriters LENNON, JOHN/ WINSTON, JAMES/ MCCARTNEY, PAUL


	5. Chapter 5

John growled in frustration as he yet again hit another dead end that shouldn't exist. He knew what was going on, had known for the last thirty minutes; the ghost was playing with him. It made sense that it would have dominion over the area. It's the place he died, the place he had likely done some seriously bad mojo, to quote his eldest son. He could deal with its games, wait for it to present itself, but when it didn't, the worry started. If it wasn't here enjoying the results of its fun, where was it? Was it with Dean?

He had been trying the walkie, but he got nothing but static. He knew Dean could take care of himself, but this particular ghost was worrying him more than usual. He had been determined to keep Sam as far away from it as possible, angry and resentful might as well be his middle name, but he wasn't completely unaware that Dean could also be a target. While not as open with his feelings as Sam, and what an understatement that was, John knew that Dean had his own buried issues that might appeal to the spirit of Alex Barton. The thought of having to battle his possessed son was disturbing to say the least.

Turning back the way he came, he headed into one of the big open rooms that resided in the middle of the basement. If he could just get to the passage in the middle, he could get to Dean's side and figure out what was going on. As before, the door leading out was locked by some means other than natural. He kicked the thick wood angrily, eyes opening wide in shock as it suddenly swung open, sending him sprawling into the hallway. He quickly moved the flashlight around, making sure he was indeed in a new spot. The last time he made it through a door, he'd ended up clear back to where they first entered this part of the basement. The ghost was a powerful little bugger for sure.

"Dean!" he called, his voice echoing through the empty hallway. There was no response.

He spotted the other hallway and jogged lightly towards it, flashing light in the other open room just to make sure Dean wasn't inside. He picked up the pace once he hit the corridor, the worry that had been just an itch in his stomach expanding to apprehension that was starting to make him lose focus, his thoughts turning to what may have happened to his son. Swallowing it down, he forced himself to get his mind back on the job. If something had happened to Dean, he would deal with it. Until he knew for sure, there was no point in dwelling over all the horrible possibilities.

Turning the knob cautiously, surprised to find that it turned easily, he pushed the door open. He guessed that the ghost was finally done with the foreplay and had decided to get right to it. The hallway was empty and silent. Then it suddenly wasn't, a scream filling the basement, pounding into his ears even as terror iced up his blood.

That was Dean. His boy.

Dean wasn't even sure where he found the strength to scream when Sam yanked the knife out of his thigh. He had been coasting on a wave of quickly diminishing pain, sliding into blessed oblivion before being rudely yanked back to his unfortunate situation in a most agonizing fashion. His eyes fell onto his blood soaked leg, noting with the detachment of shock that Sam had managed to miss an artery because it wasn't gushing.

The last thing he remembered before starting his descent back into peaceful darkness was Sam hitting him in the face over and over again, telling him that he hated him, that he wished he had died in the fire instead of Mom, that he couldn't wait to get away from him. Dean fought those words as much as he could, but they played on the fears he had. He was afraid that Sam hated him sometimes, he did wonder if Sam would trade Dean for Mom if he had the chance, he did know in his heart that Sam was going to leave someday. And if this thing knew it and could throw it in his face, then it was coming from Sam.

When it had ripped off his amulet and whipped it across his face, laying a deep cut into Dean's cheek, saying he wished he had never given it to him at all, Dean almost let go. It was just too much. If Sam didn't love him, if Sam didn't even want him as a brother, what was the point of going on? Why bother fighting the pain, fighting the even crueler cut of words, if Sam didn't want him around?

No, none of it was true, not really, he had told himself forcefully. He wasn't going to let Sam down by believing this thing's lies.

Dean was trying with everything he had left, which wasn't much, to remember the reality of Sam, the truth of his little brother that wasn't distorted by a kid that just went wrong somewhere. He remembered the sincerity in Sam's eyes when he told Dean that he was the best big brother in the world, the strength his little body could convey when he would hug him, the trust he had when he did what Dean said, even if he didn't want to.

Sam loved him and he was just as wounded by what this thing was making him say and do as Dean was. He just had to cling to that.

Even with every inch of him hurting and more of his blood on the outside than the inside, Dean was winning. The spirit wanted him broken, wanted him to believe its twisted lies before it finished him, but Dean saw them for what they were. Sam was thirteen. Of course he was mad and probably did think that he hated Dean sometimes, but what kid didn't think that about their siblings or their parents? Being a teenager sucked.

"I need you awake, Dean," Sam said, placing the tip of the bloody knife under Dean's chin to draw his gaze up to him.

One of Dean's eyes was rapidly swelling shut, the other bloodshot and irritated from the blood running down from his eyebrow, but he still managed to glare steadily back at his tormentor.

"Can't get off on it unless I scream, is that it?" Dean slurred, his tongue having a hard time wrapping itself around the words. Sam was a strong kid anyway, throw a ghost in him and he was the Hulk. He was pretty sure he had an awesome concussion rocking and more than a few bones busted in his face. He couldn't even begin to quantify all his injuries, he was just a big ball of agony, his whole body felt broken and bloody and cold.

Sam smiled, the knife holding his head up replaced by a hand. He leaned in close, blue-green eyes studying the assorted injuries on Dean's face with approval. "The screams are nice, but that's not the reason. You're dying, Dean. Blood loss, shock, just plain giving up, whatever, you are dying. And we have one more act to get through before this show is over," he warned.

"Daddy is coming."

Sam knew what it was planning. It had taken great pleasure in filling him in. He was once again left unable to speak, but it wouldn't matter anyway. He was powerless to change anything. After watching what it did to Dean...he had nothing left. He just wanted to die.

_"Die? Sammy, have I finally broken you?"_

Sam cried deep within himself, knowing it was true.

John busted into the room with the light filtering out the edges, shotgun raised and ready to fire when the horror of what he was seeing sunk in. Dean was tied to a chair, at least he thought it was Dean, his face was so battered and swollen beneath the blood and bruises that it was hard to tell. While the sight of his bloodied and torn oldest boy was bad and would now forever be stored in his "most awful things ever" memories, it was seeing his youngest standing there, knife covered in gore clenched in his hand, a cold smile that he didn't even think Sam's face could produce turned his way that terrified him the most.

John's heart fell into his feet.

Oh he had screwed up. He had screwed up so much. He had thought it was possessing kids in the school so he'd kept Sam away. He had been with Dean and John the whole time with exception to his time in the library. It had gotten him in the library and had been with them all day and they hadn't known, didn't save him. He had wondered about Sammy's behavior, his sudden turn about on joining them for the hunt, his strange quietness at dinner, but he was so sure that he had kept Sam safe, so thought that maybe they had just hit a new milestone of common ground in their deteriorating relationship. He had been so wrong.

"Hi Dad. Thanks for joining us," Sam greeted.

"Don't call me that," John ordered, moving further into the room, eyes on Dean. One glassy green eye met his, the other buried behind swollen flesh. There was so much blood, it was hard to see all his wounds, but he did make out a gaping tear in his left upper chest that was still bleeding heavily, a small, but deep stab wound just under the right side of his rib cage, dark red blood seeping out. The jeans covering his right leg were also soaked in blood, a rip at the top showing pale flesh. They were all grievous injuries, how Dean was still breathing was a mystery. As it was, Dean could barely hold his head up, it was already bobbing back down towards his chest.

That thing had ripped Dean open, made him hurt and bleed all while wearing his brother's face. He could only hope that Sammy wasn't awake in there, that he wasn't seeing all of it.

"How you doing, Dean?" John already knew the answer, but he just wanted to hear his son's voice. He looked awful; covered in blood, multiple stab wounds, the beating he'd taken. If he didn't get him out of here and to a hospital soon, it was going to be too late.

"Been better, sir," Dean gasped out, blood dribbling from his lips.

For Dean to admit he was hurting, that meant he was in really bad shape. John fought the panic that was welling up inside him. He had a son at death's door and another in the grasp of a ghost that had used him to torture his brother. He didn't have time to give into what the Dad side of him was going through, he had to stay in control.

"I was starting to think you might not make it in time, John. Dean-o here is kind of on his last leg," Sam commented casually.

"Well I'm here now," John stated. He looked Sam over quickly. Aside from the split and possibly broken knuckles from pounding in Dean's face, he looked unharmed. On the outside anyway. He could only imagine what damage had been done to him mentally if he was awake for all of this.

Sam turned and moved in behind Dean, John's shotgun tracking the movements. It was loaded with rock salt and wouldn't kill Sammy as long as it wasn't point blank range, but he'd want to do something if it made a move on Dean. His eldest couldn't take much more.

Settling in behind Dean, chin resting in the nook of his brother's neck and shoulder, he brought the knife up to his throat. Dean tensed slightly at the touch, but that obviously set off a chain reaction of pain, a hiss escaping his clenched teeth. Sam's eyes met John's, calculating and hard.

"I was going to draw this out, share some of Sam's secrets with you, but I got a bit carried away with Dean, so we're low on time. Typical really. Dean takes all the pain and abuse while you and Sam escape without a scratch. He does that a lot. So sacrificing," Sam revealed, placing a small kiss on the side of Dean's jaw. "I mean, you should see some of things he's done to keep him and Sam alive while you were chasing down vengeance for your dead wife. It's beautiful, really. That's why I enjoyed this so much. Killing bad people is no fun at all."

"What is it you want?" John asked. If it was ready to wrap this up, that was fine with him. He had to take care of his boys.

Sam's head tilted back, eyes turned up in thought. Coming to a decision, he looked back over at John. "I like this family. The other ones, including my own, were pretty normal. They just had a kid that was a bit twisted, a little different. Sam? Now Sam is something really special. Sam and I have a lot in common, we share a link."

John's eyes sharpened. "What link?"

Laughing, Sam shook his head. "Maybe another time. So because of that, I'm going to do Sam a favor and make an exception. I'm going to let you save a son. I mean, you're all so messed up anyway, what damage can I really do?" Sam's hand rose up from Dean's shoulder to clasp his sweat and blood drenched forehead, pulling his head up, neck taut against the knife at his throat. "Daddy's choice. You kill Dean; I hop out of Sam and go my merry way. We can play again some other time. He's probably going to die anyway, so that would be my vote. Or! You kill Sam; boot me out, and Dean lives. You don't choose, I kill them both and leave you with nothing." The voice was unsympathetic and eager, enjoying the play of emotions over John's normally taciturn face.

"Why not just kill me?" John rasped out, wishing that had been one of the options.

Sam shrugged. "That's easy. He hates you and I can't blame him. You're a horrible father and not much better as a person. You have two children you ignore, one that you forced to raise the other since he was four years old and the other you refuse to let grow up and think for himself. You don't really care about them, they are tools, like your gun."

John shook his head in denial, jaw clenched tightly that these might actually be thoughts in his youngest son's head. Sam had said these things, but he had never said he hated him. It hurt a lot more than he would have expected.

It wasn't done.

"You just expect them to fall in line, obey your every order without ever giving a thought to what they need. They are children, John. Kids. Not soldiers. You're willing to let them die to avenge someone who is already dead. Pretty pathetic, really. Yet even after all that, you love them, more than just about anything. Such a contradiction. Moral is, I don't like you. Me, a murdering ghost, doesn't like you. So it's you I want to suffer and so you will," Sam finished, his words so like Sam's but the tone so unforgiving and icy that there was no doubt that this wasn't coming from his son.

"So!" Sam called out, cheerful again. "You have your choices, pick."

Options were running through John's mind like equations in a computer, full of results and consequences that were not acceptable. Any choice that didn't let both of his boys walk out of here was not a choice at all. He knew that he wouldn't be able to bargain with this thing, it already felt that it was being generous and knew that this would cause the maximum amount of pain. It's always the survivors that suffered the most.

"Dad!" Dean ground out, tears falling from his eyes. "You kill me, Dad. Save Sammy. It's right, I'm done for." Dean's voice sounded like he'd been swallowing broken glass, but John could still hear the determination beneath the pain. He meant it. He fully expected John to sacrifice him to save Sammy. Despair and pride warred within him, that Dean would so willing give up his own life for his little brother, without hesitation, without regret or blame.

"Decide, decide, decide!" Sam said in a sing song voice, standing up now, knife still resting at Dean's throat.

John's eyes flicked back and forth between his sons for a long moment. Then he placed the shotgun on the floor, took the .45 from the small of his back and aimed it. He knew what he was going to do. He decided.

###### 


	6. Chapter 6

John had never needed a miracle more than this, had never needed truer aim. He would pray, but that required faith that he had lost the night Mary died. Instead, he would rely on years of experience making risky calls and impossible shots. He'd seen a window, the tiniest sliver of opportunity to save both his sons and he had to take it. It could be a huge mistake, it could leave one or both of them dead or seriously maimed, but it was the best option he could see in the time he had.

"I'm sorry, boys," he said softly.

The shot rang out, echoing loudly in the still room. The bullet winged the left side of Dean's body, just above his hip, shot through the back slat of the chair and grazed a path on the outer part of Sam's left thigh. Both boys cried out, Dean barely audible over Sam as the younger boy fell back, the knife hovering by Dean's throat sliding way harmlessly as Sam's arms went wide in reaction. John was already moving forward to subdue his youngest, almost choking in relief that his shot had hit exactly as intended, his hand clenching around Sam's arm to stop his fall, the other knocking the knife out of his hand, when he was hit by shock of cold air that rushed past him.

"That's right! Iron bullets, you son of a bitch!" John gritted out. He wasn't all that sure the ghost would be expelled, it was so strong and had such a hold on Sammy, but it wouldn't have mattered. All he had wanted to do was get Sam off balance enough to get to him before the ghost could stop him. One well-placed fist to the face and a heap of guilt at the bruise it would have left and the ghost would have been without his puppet. This just made it easier.

"Dad?" Dean rasped out, his voice hitching with his halting breaths.

John knew what he was asking. "He's fine, Dean."

The ghost was no longer in the room. It should be weakened and unable to possess or interact with them for a time, but very little about this ghost had followed the norm, so John wasn't taking any chances. Sam was unconscious, his body resting against John. He lowered the boy gently to the ground in a sitting position, leaning him back so that the wall would support him. He hated to do it, but he couldn't risk Sam being used by the spirit again, so he handcuffed the boy's hands behind his back. If it got to him again, it would at least slow it down.

He quickly checked the wound on Sam's thigh. It was bleeding sluggishly, but it really was just a graze, probably wouldn't even need stitches. It could have been so much worse. John had to fight down the "what ifs" and "could have happeneds" that were rising inside him. It had been such a risk, to put that large of a bullet near his son's skinny leg, but he had to get him distracted. He tied a bandana around the wound snugly to help with the bleeding. More concerning was the chill on Sam's skin, his uneven breathing. Possession took a hard toll on the body, and Sam was just a child. John quickly took off his jacket and wrapped it around Sam, taking a moment to rest his youngest son's head against his chest, his hand spread over the back of his head. Sammy would be okay, at least he hoped he would. He would know more when he woke up.

Now to face what he'd been dreading most of all.

John moved back over to Dean, kneeling before him, his knife making quick work of the ropes binding him in place. Dean had struggled enough that the coarse fibers had abraded the skin at his wrists and ankles, and there were raw patches across his chest and upper arms. Dean's unfettered arms went immediately to his wounds, pressing against them as tightly as his trembling muscles would allow to staunch the bleeding. Up close, the wounds the knife had made were even worse, the strip of skin the bullet tore away just insult to injury. John put a hand on Dean's uninjured shoulder when he started to slump forward without the hold of the ropes, pushing him gently upright. Dean's skin was cold and clammy with so little color that his freckles stood out like dark dots from a sharpie marker, his panting breaths barely raising his chest. One glassy green eye tried to focus on him, the pupil blown wide, the other now completely lost beneath the swelling.

John knew what he was looking at. The sad thing was that he'd seen Dean look this bad before. The ghost was wrong, dead wrong. John did care about his boys, more than anything and he hated himself more than they ever could for putting them through all of this, for raising them into this life. But what choice did he have? He had to prepare them, train them up, so that what happened to Mary didn't happen to them. The Winchesters were marked, it was the only course of action they could take.

"You're going to fine, Dean. You just stay with me, all right?" John said, forcing confidence that he didn't feel into his voice.

Dean didn't respond, the only sign he was still there at all was that rolling eye that was struggling to stay aware, stay conscious. John was terrified that if Dean passed out he wouldn't wake back up again. There were two things Dean would always respond to; Sammy and John's orders. Sam wasn't able to help right now, so John had to shove aside the shame that was building up in him at the thought of shouting at his dying son, but he couldn't let Dean just slip away.

"Dean!" he barked. That bleary eye shot up to the sound of his voice, his body trying to push upright against John's supporting hand. "We need to get you and Sammy out of here, so you need to stay awake. That's an order, son."

It worked. John didn't even want to think about the day when Dean was hurt enough that it didn't. He could see Dean swimming back to the surface, fighting to push through the blanket of pain, fatigue and misery. It was like he was a wilted balloon being inflated once again with air. His body straightened and lifted, his back pressed against the chair. John's hand fell away. His eye cleared a bit and steadied on his face. It wasn't without a price; his already strained breaths were even harsher, sweat pouring down his face, his entire body trembling with effort. Dean nodded, the slightest motion of his head.

"K, sir," he mumbled. "Ready."

John's face twisted in a pained smile at his son, at his strength. Dean never ceased to amaze him. He knew he didn't tell him enough, but he just couldn't. He needed Dean hungry, on point, terrified to mess up. As awful as it was, it was for his own good. Everything he did was always for the best interests of his boys, whether they knew it or not.

John placed a firm hand at the back of Dean's neck, squeezing it comfortingly. "You're going to be fine," he whispered, as much for himself as for his eldest.

Dean's bloody and swollen mouth quirked up at the side in a sad imitation of his trademark cocky grin. "Always fine," he whispered.

It wasn't true, but it would have to do.

Getting the boys into the car was an exercise in patience, determination and shoving his emotions as deep inside himself as they could possibly get. Physically, Sam was easy. John merely picked up his light weight and ran him out to the car. John was panting by the time he placed Sam in the passenger seat, but he knew this was cake compared to getting Dean to the car. His youngest was still out, which was concerning, but his color was better, his skin warmer. John threw a quick scanning glance around the area, relieved to see that they were still alone outside. He didn't relish leaving Sammy out there alone with a pissed off ghost on the loose, but he really didn't have another option.

When John headed back to the room to collect Dean, his oldest son had already thrown his button up shirt and jacket on and had his discarded shotgun and knife. Before John had left with Sammy, he had used Dean's t-shirt as a make shift bandage for his thigh and used his own shirt to wrap around his middle, the seep of blood coming from the stab wound sure to increase when they moved him. There wasn't enough clothing left to attend to the mess on Dean's shoulder, but the bleeding had slowed down. John suspected grimly it was because Dean was just plain running out of blood to shed instead of any good reasons.

Dean was leaning heavily against the door frame, his chin resting on his chest which was heaving to pull in air. Part of John wanted to curse at his son for moving when he so clearly needed to stay still, the other part wanted to clap him on the back and say "That's my boy." He did neither, merely took the shotgun out of Dean's loose grasp and tucked himself up under Dean's armpit on his right side, his left arm wrapping tightly around Dean's waist. Every second that passed was a second Dean couldn't afford to not be in a hospital.

"You ready, kiddo?" John asked.

"Ready as I'm gettin'," Dean mumbled, throwing his arm around John's shoulders. The stretch pulled on his side, aggravating the puncture wound, forcing a low hiss of indrawn breath through clenched teeth, his good eye shutting tightly. The muscles in his jaw bunched up as he worked through the pain, tried to slow his erratic breathing. Slowly, he regained control, his fingers crawling over John's back to latch firmly to his shoulder.

"Good boy, Dean. I'd like to say we'll take it slow, but time is not our friend right now, okay?" At Dean's nod, he hitched the boy up slightly so he had a more secure grasp on him. The groan that tore out of his son was echoed in his soul, but John could not give voice to it. He had to stay strong and detached if he was going to get them out of there. "You tell me if it gets too bad, though, and we'll adjust," he offered.

"Got it, let's just get moving before I pass out. Trying to save it for the stairs so I can make you carry me," Dean gasped out hoarsely, a smile trying to curl up his lips.

"Yeah, that's not happening," John said with a chuckle. Dean may only be seventeen, but hunting and training had given his boy solid muscles that weighed a ton. "Okay, let's go."

This was not the first time that one of the Winchesters had to practically be carried out, broken and bleeding, of someplace by another and it certainly wouldn't be the last, but this one would go down in the history books as a gold medal fucked up situation. For John, it was a harrowing and impossibly long battle to move Dean forward with his son fighting off nausea, unconsciousness, shock and the start of a fever. The choked and bitten off sounds he made were enough to make John almost lose his dinner and possibly even some things he hadn't even eaten yet.

Dean was normally stoic when he was in pain, or cracking jokes. He had tried both, but this time it was too much. Those groans and whimpers spoke of suffering and anguish and John just wanted to make it better. His eldest could barely get his feet under him by the time they made it to the stairs and no amount of encouraging or even demanding words were going to change that. Dean was hanging on by a thread and it was getting pretty damn frayed.

At the end of his own rope, concern and fear for Dean finally turning into panicked impatience, John stuck his fingers inside the belt loops of Dean's jeans and hauled him up a step at a time, using his knee to help push his son forward. Dean would have the mother of all wedgies, but they made it to the top relatively intact. John's back didn't agree, but he could ignore that.

At that point, Dean's reserves ran out and he collapsed bonelessly against John, the sudden shift in weight almost sending both Winchesters back down the stairs. Gritting his teeth and quickly wiping away the sweat dripping into his eyes, John steadied Dean again. He called his name, tapped his bruised cheek lightly, ordered him to wake up, but there was no response. Worry bloomed up fresh in John's gut. He had to get him help now. John shifted and hauled Dean up in a fireman's carry. He didn't like that Dean had passed out, but if he had been awake, John was pretty sure he wouldn't be at that point, all his injuries mashing into John's hard body. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best way to get him to the car.

John made his way to the car, carefully balancing Dean's weight to open the back door. He bent over enough that Dean's feet were on the ground and pulled Dean off his shoulders. A quick glance into the front showed him that Sam was still unconscious. He gingerly placed Dean onto the backseat, throwing a blanket that had been bunched up on the floor over him. Kneeling inside, he checked Dean's pulse, not at all liking the weak and thready beat against his fingers. His breathing was still erratic and shallow, his skin white under the blood and bruises.

He already looked dead.

Shaking the thought away, John slammed the door shut and ran to the driver's side. Dean was tough. He was tougher than any of them, had walked away with a lot worse. He would walk away from this.

Dammit, he would!

Once in the car, John reached over for Sam and removed the handcuffs. He wasn't going to even try explaining those at the hospital. Sam's breathing was steady and deep, his eyes fluttering behind his eyelids. He looked like he was just sleeping and dreaming, but there was really no way to know for sure.

The Impala roared to life and instantly shot forward when John pressed down on the gas pedal with no squealing of tires that Dean loved. She seemed to know her man was in trouble and that he didn't have time for theatrics today. The hospital wasn't far, which was just as well because John barely remembered the ride over. All he could think about was his two sons, both unconscious, one dying, one in a completely unknown state. He could have avoided all of this. This mess was his fault. Not paying attention to his youngest was coming back to seriously bite him in the ass.

Almost before the Impala had fully stopped in the no parking area in front of the emergency entrance, John was out of the car and yelling for help. In a blur of activity, Dean was pulled out and placed onto a gurney. He had been in enough hospitals to recognize the looks passing over his way; sympathetic and hesitant to meet his eyes. They had already written Dean off, but they didn't know his boy. They didn't know the death grip that kid had on life. Sam was taken too. John wasn't sure what was wrong with him was really physical, but it was better to have him checked over.

John followed them all inside, hearing a lady buzzing in his ear about moving the car, but he waved her off with an irritated and well placed "Fuck the car." He vaguely recalled a man in white clothes saying he would move it, but John was fully focused on the flood of people taking his sons away from him before swinging doors swallowed them up.

"Sir? Sir!" The lady was back.

The look John gave her must have been as frightening as it felt because she stepped back, her face creasing with dismay.

"Sir, what happened?" she asked cautiously.

John swallowed, a hand running down his jaw. "Mugged. They were mugged outside our hotel room. I found them like this," he said woodenly. It was the typical story, usually mugged for the boys, bar fight for John. They only had to get creative when they had really weird looking injuries, like claw marks or fang bites.

"In this town? Oh dear, they are just kids!" she gasped sympathetically. "Well I'm so sorry, but I will need you to fill out some paperwork. You can sit over here." She gestured to a chair.

"When will I know how they are?" John rasped out, still trying to develop x-ray vision so he could see them through the doors they had disappeared into.

"Someone should be out shortly to let you know about their condition. Please, come sit down," she pleaded, a gentle hand guiding him to the chair.

She placed a clipboard on his lap, a pen attached to it by a rubber band. John just stared hatefully at the documents, so angry at their familiarity that he wanted to salt and burn them right there. He despised hospitals and knew his boys did too. So why did he keep putting them in situations that made them end up here, a little voice asked. He had no answer for it this time. His bleary eyes lifted back up to the doors, heart clenching

They had to be okay. There had to be. Because if they weren't?

Nothing would ever be okay again.

###### 


	7. Chapter 7

It only took about ten minutes for a doctor to step through the double doors and ask for a Mr. Fleetwood. John had been pacing agitatedly ever since he completed the paperwork, his every step watched warily by the admissions woman who had talked to him earlier. He couldn't sit; he was too fueled up with adrenaline and anxiety. The second he heard his alias, he turned and strode toward the man.

"John," he greeted, offering his name. "How are my boys?" he asked roughly, his fists clenching as he braced for what the doctor was going to say. He was covered in his eldest son's blood; he was under no illusions about his condition.

The doctor smiled calmly at him. "I'm Dr. Parker. Why don't we head into my office so we can discuss what is going on with your sons?" he suggested, motioning John toward a room off to the side.

John's stomach turned inside out then decided to jump up into his throat, cutting of his breath. He could feel the blood drain out of his face. Talking in the office always meant bad news. Talking in the office meant someone was seriously hurt. Talking in the office meant that he might not be taking one of his sons home. He nodded jerkily, following the doctor with heavy steps.

Once the men were seated, the doctor folded his hands and adopted the expression of serene concern that they must train in medical school. All the doctors John had ever dealt with, and he had dealt with a lot, had that look down pat. He hated it, almost as much as their damn forms.

"I'll start with Sam. Aside from a scrape on his thigh, which I have to say looks suspiciously like a gunshot wound, and a couple of broken knuckles, he's fine. You said you think they were mugged?" John nodded in response. "Well your son obviously tried to fight them off, the injuries to his hands are definitely offensive wounds. We'll patch up the wound on his thigh and splint up the fingers in just a few minutes and then you can see him. He has started to come around, he has been asking for Dean," he mentioned.

John exhaled slowly, a small bit of apprehension releasing. Sam was okay. He still didn't know about the boy's mental state, but physically he was fine. They could deal with everything else later.

"And Dean?" he prompted tightly. John didn't miss the flicker that passed the doctor's eyes, a break in his careful mask. John clenched his teeth, trying to prepare himself the best he could for what was about to come.

Dr. Parker sighed deeply, the calmness slowly bleeding to compassion. "I'm not going to hedge with you, John, he's in bad shape. He took the brunt of the attack and suffered three significant wounds that appear to have been inflicted with a large knife; one to his left shoulder, the right side of his torso and his right thigh. At this point, we don't think any major organs were damaged. The wound in his side did cause a tear to the small intestine, so we have him on heavy antibiotics to combat infection. The wound in his shoulder was traumatic enough that we suspect some tendons and muscle tissue were damaged, so physical therapy will be needed for him to regain full use. There is a scrape on his left side, much like the one on Sam's thigh, but it's not too concerning. He also suffered significant contusions to his face. His nose is broken along with the zygomatic bone on the left side of his face. He also has a concussion from the beating he obviously suffered." Dr. Parker paused then to take another deep breath. "I'm not sure exactly what happened, but it's clear that Dean was restrained with rope. Based on the location of the abrasions and ligature marks, it looks like he was tied to a chair. I don't want to use the word tortured, but it seems fitting. There were no signs of sexual assault on either of your boys."

John's leg was starting to jiggle as he listened to the doctor rattle off Dean's injuries with the urge to hit something. He was a man of action and he just wanted to fix his boy. He had seen the damage, touched it, but still, hearing about the trauma Dean had suffered was tearing him apart. He wished he could take his place, take all the wounds onto himself, but it didn't work that way. He clasped his hands over his mouth and nose, resting his elbows on his thighs. He suspected he hadn't heard the worst of it and looking at the tension that now filled Dr. Parker's face, he was right.

"The main concern we have now is the significant blood loss. He's gone into shock and his blood pressure is steadily dropping. His pulse rate is significantly higher than it should be. We are replacing the blood he lost as quickly as we can without complicating matters. Once we get him stable, we will get him into surgery to repair the tear in his intestine. We will also attend to the wound his shoulder and do what we can to repair the damage to his tendons. He's fighting hard, John. Anyone else with these injuries…well he's fighting, but I want to be sure you understand. Dean is in very critical condition at this time, but we'll keep fighting as long as he does. Do you have any questions for me before I head back?" he asked.

"Can I see him before you take him in?" John asked hopefully. If there was a chance, any chance at all, that Dean might not pull through, he desperately wanted to see his son one last time.

Dr. Parker shook his head. "I'm afraid not, we'll be working very fast and need to keep the room clear. If there is any reason I think you should be there, I will have someone come get you."

John could read between the lines of those bland words. If Dean wasn't going to make it, they would let him see him. He stayed silent, wanting to let the doctor get back to his son.

Standing, Dr. Parker offered John his hand, who took it. "Please. Save my son," John pleaded, his voice rough with emotion.

"We're going to do all we can, John," Dr. Parker promised. Their hands released and dropped away. "I'll send someone out to take you to Sam. I'll bring you word on Dean as soon as I have news." With one last encouraging smile, Dr. Parker left the office and headed back through the doors.

He knew he should return to the waiting room, but John couldn't quite get his legs to work yet. His mind continued to replay the doctor's words over and over again.

'shock.'

'blood pressure dropping'.

'tear in the intestine.'

'blood loss'.

They all added up to one thing; his son was dying. It wasn't the first time he'd heard those words in relation to Dean and he'd pulled through then, but there was always the fear that he wouldn't this time. He'd brought his boys into this life, a life that meant their death would be bloody. He just never thought it would be this soon.

"Mr. Fleetwood?"

John turned sharply at the voice behind him, breaking him out of his morbid thoughts. A young woman in scrubs stood at the door of the office, a kind smile on her face. "I'm here to take you to Sam. Are you ready?" she asked.

Was he ever. John stood up, nodding. He needed to see his youngest boy more than he needed to breathe right now.

Sam was sitting up in the hospital bed, staring at his bandaged hands morosely. John's heart broke just a little more looking at his youngest son. Even from the doorway he could see the anguish and grief on his young face, the dejected slump of his shoulders, and that could only mean one thing; he had been awake. He had been hoping so much…but that's not the way it worked for the Winchesters.

"Sammy?" he prompted softly.

Sam's head turned sharply, his eyes settling on John's on briefly, then skipped away, but not before John saw the tears and the guilt. He left the hunter at the door and came into the room a father. He rushed to his son's side, pulling his small body into his arms. "Oh Sam, it's not your fault. You didn't do any of this, okay?" he assured him forcefully.

"It was me," Sam said in a strangely unemotional voice, the sound muffled against John's chest.

John pulled back so he could see Sam's face, willing his son's darting eyes to meet his. "You listen to me, Sam. You were possessed. You had no control over what the spirit did, there was nothing you could do. Nothing! If this is anyone's fault, it's mine. I should have known that it had you, I should have realized that you were taken and helped you. It's not your fault, Sam!" His words were hard and urgent, and he was praying to whatever would still listen to him that he would get through to his youngest.

Sam's tears just flowed harder down his ashen face, his chin tucked into his chest. John pulled him close again, feeling the hot wetness of his boy's misery soak into his shirt. "I'm so sorry, son. I'm so sorry I let this happen to you," John breathed out, ruffling Sam's hair. He felt something drop onto his lip and realized it was his own tear.

"Dad?" Sammy choked out. He pulled back to look at John. "Is Dean..is he okay?" he asked haltingly, a mixture of fear and hope warring within his blue-green eyes.

Nodding, John smiled down at his youngest and lied. What else could he possibly do? "Yeah, he's going to be just fine, Sam," he reassured him.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Sam closed his eyes then. "He's going to hate me forever," he whispered brokenly.

More than ever, John wished Dean were here. He was always better at handling Sam's distress than John ever could. He knew without a single doubt that Dean could never hate Sam and that Dean would not blame his little brother for what happened, but Sam would only believe it if Dean said it. God help them both if Dean never got the chance to.

"No he's not, Sammy. Dean loves you more than life itself. He knows it wasn't you," he told him with certainty.

Sam looked at him again then, so bereft and damaged that John once again cursed himself for causing this. "I did such terrible things, said things..It was so awful," he breathed out, clearly horrified by the memories. "Can I see him? I have to tell him.." his voice broke off on a choked off sob.

"Not quite yet kiddo. The doctors are taking care of him and we can't see him until they have him patched up, okay?" John said, trying to keep his tone at light as he could so as not to worry Sam any more than he already was.

Nodding, Sam sniffed hard in an attempt to halt his weeping. John could see his chest jerking with the effort to keep the sobs contained. Wounded eyes turned back up to his, slowly filling with something else, something strong. "We have to get it, Dad. We can't let it do this to someone else," he said, his voice hard with determination.

John knew Sam was right, he had already been working on his next steps to do that very thing. If the ghost had latched onto Sam in the library, then that's where its home was. It was an easy mistake to assume that it was latching onto kids at the school to ride to their homes with them, but it was one that could cost Dean his life and Sam his reason for living.

"We will, Sam. I think it's attached to the library," John shared.

"Yeah, that's where it got me. There's a book, spells that he used. He was trying to summon something. His blood is in it," Sam revealed.

John's brow furrowed. "How do you know that, Sam?"

The light that had started to come into Sam's face faded back out, once again leaving him drained and mournful as he was taken over by fresh memories. "It talked to me. It was so sure that it would kill us that it wasn't as careful as it probably should have been. It bragged about what it did when it was alive, how powerful he became," he answered quietly.

"Did he say where the book was?" John asked urgently.

"No, we aren't that lucky." Sam shook his head sadly, eyes once again falling to his bandaged hands, lips curling up in disgust as if he expected to still see Dean's blood.

"It's okay, Sam, that gives me more than enough to work with," John reassured him.

His mind was already whirling with his plan of attack. He would head to the library, find the book and exorcise the bastard that had tried to tear apart his family like it had done to too many others. Then he would need to get to the school and attempt a clean up. Half of Dean's blood was drying on the dusty floor. Even if it was summer and was likely to remain undiscovered for at least another month, he didn't want to chance it. Dean might need to be in the hospital a while and with the suspected gunshot wounds on his kids, it was a certainty he would be talking to the police at some point. He didn't want anyone to start asking more questions than he could answer if the mess in the basement was discovered earlier than anticipated.

What's more, he had to do all of this before morning. While knowing that Dean was still in death's gaze. With Sammy traumatized and alone. He already knew how Sam was going to react and he didn't blame him, but it had to be done.

The father in John reluctantly stepped back behind the hunter.

"Sam, in just a few minutes, we should get word on how Dean's doing. If all is well, they'll be taking him back for surgery at that point for at least a few hours." John could already see the thunderclouds starting to form behind Sam's eyes, bright color flushing his wan face. Sam had heard this speech before, he knew what was coming. "I need to go finish off the ghost…"

"I want to come," Sam cut in forcefully, staring John down.

John kept his sigh on the inside. This was already going as expected. Yep, pretty much like clockwork.

"No, Sam. It's not safe for you. Besides, you don't want to leave Dean here alone, do you?" John hated to play the Dean card, especially since it wasn't a thirteen year old's job to watch over his seventeen year old brother after a major surgery, it was his, but he had to take care of the ghost before it got back to full strength. It knew it was dealing with hunters, it would be looking to run if it could.

Sam wasn't swayed, the resolve in his young face turning to a gut churning blend of disgust and anger aimed directly at his father. "No, I don't want to leave him alone and neither should you! But we need to finish it. I need to finish it. I want it dead, Dad. I want it destroyed and I want to do it. I owe it!" he cried out vehemently.

John didn't disagree with Sam on any one point, but there was no way in hell he was letting that thing near Sam ever again. If he had to railroad over Sam to get it done, then that's what he would do. They would sort it out later, they always did. He wasn't taking the risk.

"Sam, how do you think it got you? You were angry, you were resentful, you felt slighted. Well tell me, son, how are you feeling right now?" he ground out unkindly, hating the words and tone even as they left his mouth.

That did the job. Sam's eyes dropped away, his mouth twisting in rage. "Sometimes Dad…sometimes.." Sam didn't finish, but he didn't have to. John knew what he wanted to say, knew what he was thinking right now. Not everything the ghost had said using Sam's mouth was a lie. It hurt, cut him right down in the softer parts of his soul, but he accepted it. He'd earned it. He would take a little hate from his child to keep him alive.

"I don't want to go, Sam, but if I don't take care of it tonight…"

They were interrupted by a nurse knocking at the door, coming into the room. She introduced herself as Renee. She motioned for John to join her in the hall.

"It's all right, Sam needs to know about his brother too," he assured her. He was positive she didn't have bad news, she looked too calm.

"We've got Dean stabilized, he's on his way into surgery. It will be at least three hours. We'll keep you posted," Renee informed him. She paused then, her eyes landing on Sam's wide eyed terrified stare with hesitation. Maybe there was some bad news after all.

"I'll be right back, Sam" John said, patting Sam's leg. Sam didn't even look at him. John didn't bother to hide his sigh this time.

Once he met the nurse in the hall, she pulled him a bit further away from the door. Her eyes were dark with concern. "I'm sorry, I wasn't sure if you would really want your son to hear this, but I wanted to make sure you knew. We do have Dean stabilized now, but we did lose him for a few minutes."

At that, John's throat closed off, all thoughts of breathing flying out the window. Dean had died, he had actually died. She was still speaking, but it was like she was at the end of a very long tunnel and he wasn't hearing her.

"….going to be fine. Mr. Fleetwood?" Renee asked, obviously noticing his distress, a gentle hand coming to rest on his forearm.

John pulled himself together, shaking his head slightly to clear it. "I heard you," he confirmed. "You got him back and he's going in for surgery."

She nodded. "He's doing better than we would expect and there's no reason he shouldn't come out of surgery without complications. He's a tough boy," she reassured him.

John nodded. There was no doubt about that. "I, uh, I have to step away for a bit. I need to get hold of someone to come help with the boys," he explained haltingly. He had been so gung ho to get moving, now all he could seem to think about was that Dean had died for a few minutes.

Renee didn't seem to think it was a strange request. "Of course. We planned to keep Sam a while for observation anyway and Dean's going to be in surgery for a bit, so that's fine. I would just recommend coming back in about three hours. Did you leave a contact number so we can reach you if there are any issues?" she asked.

"Yeah, my pager. It's on the paperwork," John answered.

"Great." She smiled and squeezed his arm comfortingly before releasing him. "Dean will be okay."

With those words, she hustled away. John turned back in time to catch Sam smoothing his blankets over him. He knew what was going on, his youngest had snuck out of the bed and heard everything. The tears were back, accompanied by a sorrow that seemed to age him beyond his years.

And he was going to leave him there. Father of the year, right here.

"Well, I wish you hadn't heard it, but since you did, you should know that Dean is going to be fine," John said on a prolonged sigh.

Sam didn't respond, just started to slowly rock back and forth in the bed, eyes staring sightlessly before him. John moved to his side, one hand touching Sam's tousled head. "He died," he whispered, lips trembling over the words. "I actually killed him."

"Sam, no. Son, it was the ghost. You ask yourself, would you have ever done that to Dean? Would you have ever chosen to do those things?" John asked. Sam shook his head rapidly. "Of course not, because it wasn't you. Dean's alive Sam, they got him back. He's going to be all right." He wanted to hold his son and promise that nothing would ever harm him or his brother again, but it wasn't one that he could ever keep and there wasn't time to try and convince Sam that he might.

"I have to go. I swear I will be back as soon as I can. The nurses can get in touch with me if you need me," he promised, wishing he could sound like a bit less of an asshole.

"I won't need you," Sam muttered quietly. John knew that was true. Sammy had only ever really needed Dean.

John left then, starting to feel the father rise back up, this time armed and ready to do battle with the hunter. He had to leave before he broke down and cried with his son about the loss of his childhood, his innocence. That wouldn't solve the pressing issue, the threat. He had a ghost to kill.

###### 


	8. Chapter 8

It took only a matter of seconds to pick the lock to the library's back door and then John was inside. There were street lights shining into the front windows, so he was able to see well enough. He didn't want to risk using a flashlight, the library was on a main road and he didn't want someone calling the cops. There was nothing unusual about this library, it had all the usual accoutrements; books, tables, and more books. There were also some computers along one wall.

John was trying to sort out where a child would hide a book that he couldn't risk being found. He ruled the shelves of books out, the whole hiding it in plain sight not really the smart thing to do with a black magic spell book. Spotting a sign that read "Basement – Microfiche, Archives" next to an open doorway, he sighed and headed over. He could really do without going into yet another basement today.

"Hello, John."

John turned, shotgun immediately aimed in front of him, searching for the source of that eerie, childlike voice. There was a vague shape standing in the middle of the room, made of mist and shadows, forming the general outline of a boy about Sam's age. Eyes narrowing on it, John wondered if this is what Sam had seen before he had been taken over.

"Alex Barton, I presume," John greeted. "I'd say it's nice to meet you, but yeah, not really."

The ghost didn't have enough form to actually see any facial features, but John could feel its anger rolling off of it.

"Is Dean dead yet?" it asked cruelly.

Forcing himself not to react to the question he himself had been wondering ever since he left the hospital, John just smiled. He knew how this ghost operated and he knew he had to keep his cool.

"You're going to want be more concerned about yourself. Now how about you let the grown ups work, I got a book to find," he smirked, already turning back to the doorway.

A cold breeze shot towards him, a pressure at his back, but it did nothing more than ruffle his shirt. He chuckled then, flipping the shotgun and resting the barrel on his shoulder. John looked back at the ghost, finding it even less corporeal.

"Getting ejected out of body really takes it out of ya," he said conversationally. "I'm sure that's probably a first for you. I guess it doesn't matter how strong you are, how many spells you do, you're just like any other ghost."

"That's where you're wrong. I'm different!" it insisted, suddenly sounding exactly like a twelve year old that wasn't getting his way.

"Nah," John dismissed. "You're just another dead person that decided not to let go. Nothing special about that, I've dusted hundreds of things just like you."

"I am special. Me and Sam are both special," it responded mischievously.

That was its trump card. It had mentioned a link between the two of them before, and while John hadn't expected to be given the chance to pursue it, he certainly wasn't going to let it deter him now. He wanted to know what it meant, how it could possibly have anything in common with his Sammy. John was aware that the ghost could be stalling, waiting for its strength to return, but John wasn't going to let that happen. They had some time, he just had to watch it.

"You have my attention," John prompted.

The shape moved a little closer, cooling the air so that John's breath misted before him, but it wasn't quite close enough to touch him. John was ready for it if it did.

"I felt it almost immediately once I was inside him. I thought he was just a kindred spirit at first, another kid that wanted to see the world burn, but as I poured myself all through his body, I knew," it explained, its tone almost dreamy, like it was talking about fond memories of a past love. It no longer sounded like a petulant twelve year old, it sounded ageless. "He was touched like me, he had been visited, too."

John was getting impatient. And scared. He didn't want to admit that, but he felt like he was on the cusp of something big, something that was going to change their lives forever, and he really wasn't sure he wanted to hear it.

But he needed to hear it.

"What are you talking about?" John growled.

It laughed in response. "Patience, John. Since you're planning to kill me, you could allow me some last words. Believe me, you want to hear them."

"Then get talking, or I start looking for something to burn," John warned grimly.

"It's the blood," it said smoothly. "We share his blood."

"Who's blood?" John asked, but he already knew the answer. He just needed it confirmed, needed to have a reason for the ice starting to fill his veins, the tendrils of horror weaving through his head.

"The yellow eyed man. My father."

The world dropped out from under John then and he staggered just slightly as those words hit him like a truck. He didn't want to give it the satisfaction, but even he couldn't hide his reaction. Small world when your life had been ruined by a demon it seemed.

"Well, not my real father, but he's the man who made me what I was, what I am. He gave me his blood when I was a baby and visited me in my dreams. He helped make me strong, showed me how to use the powers he had gifted to me. He told me I was going to rule the world someday," it shared, moving even closer to John.

John had always known that the reason Mary died had to do with Sam. The demon was in Sam's nursery, it had been bending over their baby. It didn't seek out Mary, she was just in the wrong place at the worst possible time. Was that what it was doing? Infecting Sammy with demon blood?

"Kind of messed that up, didn't he?" John remarked absently, still trying to sort out what it was telling him.

"Yes, he did," it answered bitterly. "I guess I wasn't what he really wanted. He said I went too wrong, too early. Too much blood, got the mixture wrong. He said I was worthless to him. Just like Sammy is worthless to you," it slid in slyly.

"You don't know anything about how I feel about my son…" John started.

"No, but I know how Sam thinks you feel about him," it interrupted. "That's really all that's important, right? What someone perceives to be truth? That's what I learned. He left me. He had visited me every night in my dreams, told me how proud he was of me, how he couldn't wait to see what I would become. But then it all changed and he told me he wouldn't be coming back, that I was on my own." The sadness in its voice turned to anger. "When he deserted me, I tried to make him see that he was wrong about me. That I could be the leader he meant for me to be, that I wasn't too messed up. I believed it. I believed it so much, I thought he was just testing me. So I decided to show him."

The ghost moved away slightly and John was almost afraid it was going to disappear without telling him all he wanted to know. He jerked forward slightly, a hand reaching out to touch that freezing mist, to do what he didn't know, but it just passed through his fingers.

"Oh don't worry, John. I'll tell you what you want to know, then we'll have our little stand-off," it promised. It started to pace in front of him. "So where was I? Oh yes, proving myself. I used my powers to get inside people's heads, make them do things, say things. It was easy. It's amazing what you can pluck out of a mind, secrets so buried the person barely remembers them. I turned lovers against each other, pitted friend against friend, all with the truths they were too ashamed or too afraid to share. When he still didn't come back to me, I started to kill. I could just reach inside with my mind and choke off someone's breath, squeeze their heart until it burst. I wanted my father to see that I was strong, but still nothing," it sighed sadly.

John was following its motion with his eyes, but at this point, he knew it wasn't going to try anything until it told the whole story. It was enjoying itself, he could hear it in its arrogant voice, feeding off the terror that was emanating from John like a cheap cologne. He couldn't help it, it was too awful to hear this thing talk about doing what it had done with no sense of shame or remorse. He had only been twelve years old, younger than Sam. Was this the road Sam was on, becoming like this thing because of what had happened to him when he was six months old? It couldn't be, not his sweet baby Sammy.

"I had to try something else. You know, it's surprising who you can meet when you have demon blood in your veins. I was able to learn all about black magic and spells that would summon him to me from some of the best witches around. Of course, it helped that I could get whatever information I wanted just by rooting around in their heads or torturing them," it boasted. "I wrote them all down in a journal. I would sit for hours in this library, studying the spells to get exactly the right combination."

"You wanted to summon it," John rasped out in disgust.

It laughed again, hard and bitter. "Oh no, John. I wanted to bind myself to him, make it so we would never be apart. He needed a skin to walk around in, why not mine? I was powerful enough that we could share. Powerful enough to trap him inside me forever."

"You were too insane," John breathed out, seeing exactly why a demon would turn his back on the monster it created. He was too powerful, controlling him would have been too hard, especially when the demon could just start over with another baby. This one was just an early experiment gone wrong.

A cold wind slapped against him, staggering him this time. It was getting stronger. John appreciated the warning. He edged closer to the basement, making sure to stay to the side of the doorway. He didn't want Psycho Casper to knock him down the stairs.

"I am not insane!" it shouted, close enough to him to make him flinch away. "I was perfect and he abandoned me! He left me to go make a better child!"

It paused then, moving back from John. He noticed that its form was now more solid, more defined. He could see eyes now, a familiar swirling yellow that was enough to set his blood on fire, and a twisted smile on a child's face

"I found the perfect spell. I just had to sacrifice my loved ones, my family, to soil my soul. They weren't really my family, I didn't care about them at all, but it was the best I could do. So I did it. It was the first time I actually killed with my hands. It was a lot more fun than doing it with my mind, so messy and primal. I didn't realize how strong I was." Its eyes closed briefly, a crooked smile showing that it was relishing the memories. John had to clench every muscle he could to stop the shudder working its way up his spine.

When its eyes opened again, there was only betrayal and intense rage, the smile disappearing into a thin line. John could tell this part, at least, was not a pleasant memory. Good.

"The last step was the actual ritual. I decided to do it in the basement of the school, I knew I wouldn't be interrupted there. A bit of blood, some Latin, candles and a few herbs and he was there. I was so happy to see him, told him what I had planned, but he clearly didn't share my excitement. Instead, he laughed at me, said I was just proving what he thought about me, that I was all wrong," it seethed. John could see its fists clenched at its sides. "I got so angry then and I threw everything I had at him. He flew across the room and hit the wall. When he hit the ground, I thought that he would see then, that he would see that I was strong and could do anything!"

"Saying you were wrong didn't really cover it," John stated. "You weren't too bright either." He could imagine exactly how a demon would react to a human overpowering it and was starting to get a good idea of how Alex Barton met his demise.

"You don't know anything!" it screamed, slamming his fists against a shelf, the books toppling off. "He was afraid of me! I never meant for that to happen. I just wanted us to be together! He said he was just going to let me be, that it would be entertaining to have me loose in the world, but that now I was a threat to him and that I had to be destroyed. I promised I would never hurt him, but..he…he burned me! Lit me up like I was nothing but trash. I tried to get away, thought if I could make it out that someone would find me, but all my strength, all my powers didn't mean anything to me then. The fire was everywhere, surrounding me, chasing me. I died. My father killed me and all I ever wanted was to make him proud, be what he wanted. So even after I was dead, I kept trying, attempted to do the spell again and again, but it never works."

John had seen ghosts cry before, even the ghosts of children, and it was usually piteous and sad to watch, but John couldn't muster up a single ounce of sympathy as tears dripped down its young face, not after what this ghost had done to his boys, to so many other families. It wasn't Alex Barton's fault, he had been contaminated; bent and twisted into something that wasn't human. John could admit that. It still didn't change the hate he had for the spirit in front of him. It was no longer a twelve year old, it was a being created of fury, madness and arrogance. And it was time for it to die.

Tensing to aim the shotgun and pull the trigger in one smooth motion, John was thrown off his plan by the ghost's eyes snapping back to his, all the misery wiped clear, only malicious intent remaining.

"You're going to have to do the same to Sam one day, you know," it advised unpleasantly. "Put him down like a dog. My father got it right with him, he's had a lot of practice since me. Sam won't go bad, not right away. It'll come to him in pieces, little bits of the power that he can use for good. He'll open himself up for more, telling himself that he can help people with the power, that's he's using it, it's not using him. Then it's all downhill from there and he'll belong to my father. You're going to lose him, John, one way or another. And there's nothing you can do about it," it finished, a satisfied smile spreading over his face.

John tried to contain the panic that was taking over him, tried to push down the fear and worry. He tried to tell himself that it was lying, that it was just messing with him. Tried, tried, tried.

He failed.

With a roar of fury, John leveled the shotgun, blasting the grinning ghost into spinning particles of white. He turned and tore down the basement stairs, relying on his instincts to keep him from falling as he descended into the blackness. He grabbed his flashlight as he hit the floor, flicking it on hastily. He knew the ghost would be back soon, something that strong wouldn't stay gone for long. It made sense now why it was so powerful. Alex Barton hadn't been normal, he had been supercharged with demon blood. Some of that would carry over.

The basement was small and fairly empty, with white painted brick walls. There were two microfiche machines against one wall with chairs in front of them and several large filing cabinets hulking against the other two walls. There were a few closed boxes under the stairs and a rolling cart with books sitting beside one of the microfiche machines. He knew he was looking for a journal and it had to be stuffed somewhere that someone wouldn't happen upon it.

"I'm not leaving!"

He heard the scream right by his ear, before he was tossed into one of the filing cabinets. John hit it with a hard thud, his right arm smashing hard against the metal. He managed to keep his grip on the shotgun and aimed it quickly as he righted himself. The ghost of Alex Barton once again dissipated before him. He reloaded quickly, shoving the spent shells into his pocket. It was almost back to full strength which meant John was just about out of time.

He frantically pulled open the filing cabinet drawers, pawing through the old newspapers, shoving his hand as far back as it could go, searching for a journal. He got through all the drawers quickly, his alarm growing as he found nothing. At this point, he was ready to just burn the whole place down. John turned, the flashlight spilling over the room, searching for anything he may have missed.

Wait a minute.

He held the light steady on the corner that showed in the small gap between a filing cabinet and the wall. The floor near it was thick with dust and cobwebs, a place no one had gone for a long time. One of the bricks was missing its mortar. It was a longshot, but it was the best he had.

John heaved against the filing cabinet, trying to get it to budge, but it was impossibly heavy. Cursing, he started yanking the drawers out, letting them fall to the floor. He was abruptly hit on the back of the head with a book, followed by another one on his shoulder blade. He turned, shotgun ready. The ghost was standing by the small rolling card that was full of books. His head really didn't want another confrontation with one of those.

"No! I'm not ready, he's going to come back for me!" it screamed, throwing another book his way.

John dodged it and fired, missing as the ghost darted away. "Jesus, figure it out! He's done with your crazy ass!" he called after it, channeling his eldest son.

The next shot didn't miss and the ghost was gone once again. John resumed emptying the file cabinet, finally throwing it face down to the floor when it was light enough. He pulled at the brick, but it was stuck in with dried paint. He used his knife to pry it loose, sighing in relief as he saw a small dusty book inside. It only took a glance at a few pages to see that it was exactly what he was looking for. The spells had been written in blood, what he presumed was Alex Barton's blood.

He threw it down and grabbed the container of salt from his pocket, dousing it liberally, followed by the lighter fluid. His lighter was lit when the ghost reappeared. It was coming for him again.

"Please! Please don't!" it begged, reaching out pitifully.

"How many times did Sam say that to you when you were riding him?" John bit out.

With that, he dropped the lighter, the book covered in flames almost instantly. The ghost screamed in pain and fury as it dissipated for the final time, embers turning to ash which turned to nothing at all. John slumped against the wall in relief. It was over. Now he had to get back to his boys and deal with what was in front of them.

That was going to be a million times harder than any other job he'd ever done.

###### 


	9. Chapter 9

He wanted to die.

Sam was still sitting in the hospital bed where his Dad had left him, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. It could have been minutes or hours since Dad took off, he didn't know or care. He was lost, buried so deeply inside his mind that he no longer noticed the pain caused by clenching his hands or the endless tears that tracked down his face. People had come into his room, vague voices that spoke quietly to him. Sam was only listening for a couple select words: Dean, brother. He hadn't heard them yet, so he didn't bother to absorb what they were saying enough to process it into words.

He couldn't even begin to think about how he was going to make this right. How he was going to make it up to Dean. His brother had forgiven him for everything he had ever done to hurt him or make his life harder, but Sam didn't see how he could be forgiven for this.

Dean could take a beating; he almost seemed to thrive on pain. He didn't take it personally, he didn't let it get beyond the skin into his mind or his heart, even when it was Sam or Dad that was hurting him. The injuries inflicted on Dean in that basement were horrendous and had almost taken his life, but he would walk them off just like he had any other time. Dean knew that Sam had not done the damage to his body, there would be no doubt that the ghost was one hundred percent responsible for that.

So while Sam would be haunted forever by the front row seat he'd had to Dean's torture and the pain he suffered because of it, he didn't think the physical injuries had truly hurt him deep inside.

It was the words that had done the true damage because they were Sam's. Distorted and taken out of context to turn them into weapons, but they had the ring of truth. Dean would have taken them to heart because he believed them. Because Dean was broken, because Dad had put vengeance first and stopped treating Dean like a son. But Dean never stopped wanting to be treated like a son and clung to the hope that if he were better, he would be someday.

Sam may be young, but he knew his brother better than he knew anything else in the entire world. Dean was his hero, that's who he wanted to be when he grew up, so Sam studied him like he would a course at school that he had to ace. Dean was confident, cocky and unflappable on the outside, aided by good looks, charm and an inherit force of personality that made him seem completely bulletproof. If you took the time and effort to look beyond that exterior, there was something else to see, something that wasn't so strong. His big brother never felt good enough, never thought he was important, believed he was little better than cannon fodder and a shield for Sam and Dad. He doubted that they loved him even half as much as he loved them and didn't think less of them for it. He was wrong, but that's what he thought.

But even Dean wasn't strong enough to actually have it said to his face without it having an impact, even if he had already accepted it as truth. Dean was only really vulnerable when it came to Dad and Sam and their words had the power to rip him apart. They both knew it and yet they could be so careless with the things they said. Sam constantly ragging on Dean for blindly following Dad's orders, Dad always making Dean feel like he had to do better, that his efforts were never enough.

Sam didn't remember Dad being anything but what he was now; hard, demanding, impenetrable, but Dean did. Dean had four years with Dad before everything went to hell. He remembered a father that cared, that did Dad things like playing ball and pulling him up on his shoulders so he could see a parade better. Dean had told Sam all of this, but Sam didn't really believe it. He couldn't even imagine Dad being so…Dad like.

When Dean looked at Dad, his vision was skewed with a blend of what he had been and could be again and what he was now. Dean believed in Dad, completely and utterly. He would do anything for him, including lay down his life. He'd nearly done that more than once taking a hit for Dad. He didn't hold against Dad the fact that he'd no longer been allowed to be a child when he was only four, that he'd been faced with injury and death since Dad started hunting, that Dad left Dean to take care of everything with little thought of how he would actually accomplish it. He lived for those times that Dad would tell him he'd done a good job, or that he was proud of him, times that were far too few in occurrence to be any balm to Dean's shredded self worth.

Dean was different around Dad. He was uncertain, would defer to Dad's commands, he became smaller somehow. That was the crux of Sam's issue with Dad barking out orders and expecting them to be followed; he changed his big brother from the leader to a follower and it was too sharp a transition for Sam to follow. He didn't understand how Dean could bury his natural ability to take charge with no apparent resentfulness so Sam got angry for him. He couldn't help it, he couldn't stand seeing his Dad change Dean into just a mindless soldier and didn't know why Dean didn't fight harder to stop it. Why he didn't demand to stay on the same level with Dad, his thoughts and opinions actually meaning something, instead of falling into line and calling him "sir" like he was his commanding officer. Dad wasn't always right, he didn't always make the right calls.

No matter what Dad did, how he treated him, Dean worshipped their father. Just as Dean was Sam's hero, Dad was Dean's. The big difference was that Dean deserved to be idolized.

Dean was everything to Sam, his entire world. Dean wasn't only his brother, he was his father, his mother, best friend and teacher. He hardly had any memories without Dean in them and that was just fine. He could always count on Dean to take care of him, to make sure he was okay. He knew how often Dean would go hungry to stretch their food when Dad was late returning from a hunt, how often he would steal when money ran out, or hustle pool at the bars, risking coming home beat up and exhausted. How often he'd done other things that Sam couldn't put a name to, but knew it chipped away at Dean's soul.

He didn't like to show it, but Dean had the biggest, most compassionate heart of anyone Sam knew. There wasn't a thing he wouldn't do for his family or to save others from harm. There wasn't anything he wouldn't give Sam if he could. It came out in small glimpses; letting Sam sleep with him during a thunderstorm, managing to always get Sam a present for his birthday and Christmas no matter how broke they were, never minding when Sam barfed on him, or worse, when he was sick. More importantly, he never made Sam feel like a burden. He made Sam feel like he was the most important thing in his world and there was no sacrifice to small or large to ensure his safety and happiness.

And now that ghost had driven a wedge between them, using and twisting Sam's own thoughts to hammer it in. Because Sam knew that words would hurt his big brother more than physical injury, the ghost knew it too and found exactly the right things to say to cause the most pain. He saw the flinch in Dean's eyes as it screamed how much he hated him, how much he wished he could have been born to a different family, that he was going to leave first chance he got. A wounded movement in those pain filled green eyes that said he believed it, even if it was just a small piece of him. A part of him truly thought that Sam just might hate him, that Sam only wanted normal and that he would sacrifice Dean to have it. That no matter how much he loved Sam and needed Sam, his little brother just didn't quite feel the same way and never would.

That Dean could believe that meant that Sam had failed. Even though he had tried to show Dean how much he cared, how much he appreciated him, it hadn't been enough. While it was a lot to ask of a thirteen year old boy to have the emotional maturity and clarity of mind to reassure his almost adult brother of his deep regard and admiration, he had to remember that Dean didn't think much of himself and that his own insecurities would make him question Sam's love. He would just have to try harder, try and break through that tough shell of Dean's that wouldn't let Sam speak his feelings for fear of a chick flick moment. He had to show Dean that what the ghost said about his feelings for his big brother was nothing even near the truth.

Now, what it had spouted out about his hate for hunting and anger at Dad? That was true, but that would be no surprise to Dean. Sam had said it often enough. His thoughts about leaving? Well, those he would have liked to keep to himself. He wasn't ready to face those yet, actually allow them to form as possibilities. What the ghost neglected to say was that he while he wanted out, he wanted Dean with him. He couldn't even imagine a life without his big brother. The ghost has used half- truths and fragmented thoughts to put together an ugly quilt of rage and betrayal and tried to smother Dean with it.

Dean couldn't die. Sam had to be given the chance to fix this, he couldn't die thinking Sam hated him.

"Please don't let him die," Sam whispered, eyes turned upward, praying that he would be heard.

"Sam?" A nurse was standing at the doorway, a calm smile spread across her face. She waited until Sam looked at her before he continued. "Your brother is out of surgery. It went just fine. He's in recovery now, but as soon as possible, I'll come get you so you can see him, okay?"

Sam nodded eagerly, his heart jumping erratically in his chest, hope starting to bloom amongst the angst churning through his veins. He was going to get a chance to show his brother how much he loved him, that Dean was his world, just as much as Sam was his. He would do everything in his power to prove it to Dean so they could go back to normal, their own private, personal, messed up Winchester version of normal.

An hour later, Sam was led to Dean's room, his windpipe feeling like it was about as wide as a straw. His chest was tight with nervousness, what breath was getting through shallow and trembling. It was the moment of truth, the nurse had said Dean was awake. Very heavily dosed up on pain medication, but awake.

The nurse left Sam lingering at the door, mentioning that she would be back for him later. Sam barely heard her, everything he had was focused in on his brother. Every time Sam saw Dean in a hospital bed, he was always struck by the stillness of his big brother. Not just his body, but his overall energy. Dean seemed to operate on a wavelength that no one else did, pulsing and full of vitality, so it was always so shocking to see it all but wiped out.

The familiar sight of machines attached to his brother with tubes and wires almost brought Sam's tears back. This was starting to become a habit and he was getting really tired of seeing his big brother like this. He could feel anger starting to brew up in all his other emotions, anger at himself for putting him here, anger at Dad for constantly putting them in harm's way. He tried to stuff that back down, he would not allow his feelings about Dad to taint this moment, that's why they had gotten into this mess in the first place.

Starting forward on suddenly weak legs, Sam's eyes rested on Dean's face. Sam's stomach clenched at the condition of his brother's handsome face, it was almost unrecognizable. Beneath the bruises and swelling, Dean was still chalk white with a red flush high on his cheekbones. One glittering eye was focused on the ceiling. Sam could see the swelling around the other rising above Dean's profile, completely hiding his left eye. A wave of pain erupted in his right hand as he clenched his fingers, remembering exactly how that had happened.

"Dean?" Sam asked hesitantly stopping next to Dean's bed, aching to touch his brother's hand, but afraid of Dean's reaction.

Dean turned toward him slowly, his eye narrowing as he tried to focus. "Sammy?" he whispered.

Sam tried to speak, but his voice was lost somewhere in his throat as the tears came back in full force, choking off his breath as Dean's gaze met his. There was no fear, anger, or blame there; there was only concern, love and relief. Dean's hand reached out, the line of his IV pulling slightly, and cupped around Sam's cheek. The bandage on his wrist was rough against Sam's chin, but he didn't notice. Dean's thumb stroked away a tear, to only be confronted by more.

"Okay, Sammy?" Dean rasped out, sounding so weak and worn out that Sam felt yet even more guilt keeping his brother from his rest.

Nodding, Sam once again tried to answer, but only a pathetic little whimper made it out. Steeling himself, he tried again. "I..I'm good, Dean. It's gone," he assured his brother.

"Dad?" Dean asked.

"He's fine too. He's finishing up." Sam knew Dean would understand, he didn't want to say something that might be overheard and land them in a padded room.

Dean nodded, eye drifting shut briefly as he swallowed. He almost looked like he might be going to sleep, but the hand wrapped gently around his face didn't waver.

"I'm so sorry, Dean," Sam suddenly blurted out. He had intended to do this more gracefully, but he couldn't stand the wait anymore. There was no right moment to say 'Hey, sorry for breaking your body and your heart.' He had to tell Dean, had to make sure he knew…

Dean was looking at him again and now Sam saw what he had been fearful of all along; anger. Dean pulled the younger boy closer, his hand moving from his cheek to rest at the back of his neck. Sam wanted to look away, didn't want Dean to see his shame, but he owed it to Dean to face him. He had caused this, he would let Dean have his say.

"S'not your fault, Sammy. None of it," Dean paused to take a breath. "It was a strong son of a bitch, nothing you could have done." His voice could barely be heard over the beeping of the monitors surrounding him, but what it lacked in volume, it made up for intensity.

Sam felt the start of the crushing weight of remorse lighten at those words, at the sincerity in his brother's gaze, but he wasn't going to let himself off the hook yet. He remembered the pain caused by the cruel words the ghost had flung at his brother, and while it was hidden away now, Sam knew it was still there and he was going to start healing it right now.

"Those things it said….Dean, they weren't true. Not really. It took things that I had thought for just an instant and made it sound like it was something I thought all the time. I don't hate you, Dean, I wouldn't trade you for another family, you are the best family a person could have," Sam said earnestly, his hand coming up to clasp Dean's forearm that was resting on his shoulder.

A tired smile curled up one side of Dean's mouth. "Sammy, you're thirteen. Dude, I'd be more worried if you didn't hate me and our fucked up family sometimes, cuz man, that just wouldn't be normal. Teenagers are supposed to hate everything and everyone," he dismissed lightly.

Sam so badly wanted to take the out Dean was giving him, just let his big brother make it all better with his trademark sarcasm and humor, but he couldn't. Not this time.

"I have never hated you, Dean, not even for a single second. Dad either. I know I get frustrated sometimes, but I could never hate you, Dean. You're my big brother, my best friend. That will never change," Sam stated, hoping Dean could hear the absolute truth in his words. "I love you, Dean, more than anything."

Dean's gaze sharpened then, even with the one eye it seemed to penetrate right through Sam, straight through to his soul, but the smile was still there. "Listen to me, Sam. I'm only going say this once because it's starting to turn into a Hallmark commercial as it is and that's not fair to do to me when I can't run away," Dean grumbled.

Sam couldn't stop the answering smile that lifted his lips briefly, it was just so Dean.

"I know what it said wasn't completely true, I know that. You show me every day that you know how lucky you are to have such an awesome big brother," Dean continued.

Sam rolled his wet eyes playfully at that.

Dean grew serious then. "But I also know that you have a lot of issues with our lives and I get it. It's not like that was a big secret, you're not exactly a shrinking flower, you know. Really, it's cool, dude. I don't blame you even the tiniest bit. It didn't win, Sammy. We're all still kicking and still a family. And somewhere, Dad's dusting its psycho ass right now. So we're good. I love you too, little brother. And if you ever repeat any of this, not only will I deny it, I'll tell Dad about that beer you snuck out of the fridge last month." Dean finished with a playful tousle of Sam's hair to back up his dire threat, his arm coming to rest wearily back by his side.

Sam wanted to play it cool, try to be as nonchalant about the situation as his brother, but it wasn't his way. He hugged his brother gently, careful of the wounds he knew were beneath his hospital gown. Dean's arms came around him then, giving him a weak squeeze.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam whispered into his brother's shoulder. He was well and truly forgiven, he could finally breathe again.

"Anytime, kiddo," Dean replied.

"Hi boys," Dad's gruff voice sounded from the door.

Sam pulled away carefully from Dean, turning to see Dad striding into the room, a gentle smile on his face as he looked them over. "Did you get it?" Sam asked hopefully, still remembering the argument they'd had earlier, but willing to let it go for Dean's sake.

Dad nodded. "Yep, taken care of." His eyes lingered on Sam for a moment, then moved to Dean. "How are you doing, son?" he asked, coming forward to lay a tender hand on Dean's head.

Dean looked all at once embarrassed and pleased by the gesture. "I'm pissed, Dad. There are some seriously hot nurses here and do you see my face? I'll be lucky to get a single number," he groaned with disappointment. He was starting to get tired, Sam could see his head was starting to sink deeper into the pillow, his speech slurring.

Dad chuckled, reaching out his other arm to swing around Sam's shoulders, drawing him forward. "Well you could try conversation, it'll be good practice." Sam could see his Dad's eyes taking inventory of Dean's injuries, the tension that had been tightening his body slowly ebbing away. He must have been pleased by what he saw.

Dean made every effort to stay with them, but his eye had drifted closed. The other Winchesters watched him for a few moments, Dad's arm still securely around Sam, the steady rise and fall of his chest reassuring them that he would be coming back to them.

"You okay, Sam?" John asked, looking down at his youngest.

Sam nodded, smiling at Dean's resting form. "I am now."

"I got something for you," Dad said, taking Sam's hand. He dropped Dean's amulet in it. Sam looked at it for a long moment, trying to fight down the tears that were threatening to come back. The cord had been reknotted, all traces of blood wiped away.

"I found it when I was taking care of the scene," Dad explained.

Sam looked up at him then, seeing the Dad that Dean did for just a moment. He may not always agree with him, but Dad did care. "Thanks, Dad, I can't wait to give it back to him."

"I just need to go talk to Dean's doctor for a minute, you all right here?" he asked.

Eyebrows lifting in surprise, Sam nodded. It wasn't exactly a usual occurrence that Dad would bother to ask. With another smile and squeeze of Sam's shoulder, he headed out of the room. Sam moved around Dean's bed to take a seat in the chair beside it.

"Hey, Sammy?" Dean mumbled.

Sam sat up again, not realizing that Dean had still been awake. Dean's eye was still closed, but his head was tilted towards his. "Yeah, Dean?"

"Do me a favor and don't give me any crap about it later? Sing Hey Jude for me?" Dean asked, sounding younger than Sam at that moment. "I don't want that thing taking that from us," he breathed out.

Sam had no problem with that, he wanted to get it back for them too. "You got it, Dean. Hey Jude…"

John turned at the doorway, hearing Sam's still childish voice singing Mary's favorite song and he had to stop himself from breaking down into a sobbing, hopeless heap on the floor. His suddenly wet eyes fixated on his children, so fearful for them. Sam….oh God, Sammy. It was now confirmed that evil was after Sam, that Mary had been taken to get to his son. He knew what had to be done and it meant that he would have to get them ready, even faster than he thought. They may hate him as much as he hated himself at the end of it, but he had to keep them safe.

No matter the cost.

The End.


End file.
